The Fruits of Labor

It's fascinating how quickly and completely things can change. I've been on this farm a solid week now, and in that time my life has done a total 180. As I type this, I'm sitting cross legged on a bed covered in flannel sheets and multiple thick blankets. I have two pairs of socks on. Each night I sleep like the dead, with nothing to wake me except a distant rooster or perhaps a cockatoo. About a foot in front of me, through the large picture window, sits acres and acres of fruit trees. Beyond those, National Forest. Of all the trees dotting the hills before me, only the lemon, orange, and mandarin remain unpicked. Yesterday my friend Jacob and I went to the small Lake on the property and let the sunshine warm us as we ate the fruit we'd just gathered on our walk back from "town". We didn't talk much. We've only known each other for 7 days. He's from Hong Kong, but is a month into a year off he's spending farm hoping. You meet people like this when you travel alone. Other singular wanderers. We got along instantly. I've taught him how to play Scrabble and Uno, he's made me Chinese food. There are only two other WWOOFers like myself here: Jacob and Tim. Tim's French, and a 20 year old tall, lanky, happy-go-lucky chap without a care (seemingly) in the world. Emily and John own this property...it's been in John's family for 70 years. They have two beautiful daughters and live just up the hill. I couldn't ask for a better host family. Emily picked me up from Perth center four days after arriving in the city, took me to my little cottage, bought me groceries, and introduced me to her family (who live nearby). My first afternoon here was spent mostly in her Mother's kitchen: a huge wooden room with foot thick beams crisscrossing above your head, a massive picnic table in the center, and a coffee machine making delicious brew on a long counter filled with freshly picked veggies from the gardens outside. Dogs and children ran around me as I tried to soak it all in while her relatives asked me questions about who I was, why I was here, etc. My head was spinning by the time we got "home", and every day since then it's settled down considerably. And now, I'm just about as happy as can be.

Quite the contrast from my last week in Malang. Because of my life long tendency to procrastinate, I left the packing up until the last 48 hours. If it wasn't for Wayan's tremendous support, I never would have gotten out of there on time. The grading was painful. Fifty quizzes consisting of essay questions in one day kills the brain. But I got it all done. My boss and his assistant paid me a visit on my last full day, for business reasons, and I had to sit through a two hour meeting about housing issues, cultural differences, how to treat the next ELF arriving in September, etc. It was a whirlwind of paperwork and tediousness. What made it memorable were my students, who waited hours for me outside of my office while I ran around town, selling my bike, running errands, and looking generally frazzled. There was a cluster of about six of them, all patiently watching me come and go, hoping for a final conversation. Their kindness floored me, and when I gave them all hugs, I lost it. I'd forgotten why I was there, what I accomplished, and the effect of my year at that school. But when I gathered their tiny frames into my arms, it all made sense. Their attentiveness made up for the fact that at my staff going away party, I was served two pieces of processed cheese between two buns when I'd ordered a "cheese burger" (when I asked what had happened, they said I should have ordered the "burger with cheese" if I'd wanted meat). Their unabashed sweetness forgave the fact that my counterpart did not show up to my going away party, and the fact that even though I'd gotten rid of multiple bags of stuff before packing, they still charged me $36 in excess baggage weight at the airport. None of that mattered. And from the view outside my window right now, I'm brought back to the present, and to the simple, expansive joy of living, once again.

My schedule is pretty amazing. I'm asked to work four days a week. I have Wednesdays off, and full two day weekends. Work begins at 8am. I break for an hour at noon, and am finished at three. So far I've picked fruit (LOVE climbing the trees), packed fruit, pitted fruit, sorted fruit, labeled fruit, and eaten a lot of fruit straight off the trees. It's the middle of their winter, so I'm bundled up most of the time, but my tiny cottage has a large space heater that keeps the place pretty warm. At the moment, it looks like I'll be here another five days. Next weekend I might go back to Perth and try to check out the neighboring Fremantle, which is supposed to be an artsy little town with a good music and coffee shop scene. My last week and a half will be spent at another farm about two hours south of here. Again, I have no idea what to expect, but I'm not worried. Nothing risked, nothing gained, right?

Looking forward to more peace and quiet, more delicious food and new people. I love listening to folks talk around me, love noticing their unique colloquial phrases, the lilting intonations of their accents. Western Australia is a beautiful place. So grateful to be here.

Until then...happy 4th of July America! I'll be seeing you.

Wrapping up and Moving On...

I leave Malang in nine days. This weekend is full of grading. Next weekend will be full of packing. What carried me this far?

Perhaps it was the fact that my favorite cafe (the very spot where I'm typing this blog entry) knows what I order each time I come, that I don't want egg on my chicken burger, but I do want cheese, that I don't want gula (sugar) in my tea, but I want it iced, and that I stay for 3-6 hours at a time doing work next to a window where a pond sits full of koi fish 2 feet behind me. Or maybe it's the fact that I bought a handful of snake fruit and coconut milk yesterday, went home after a long day, and ate my fruit on my couch while watching season three of LOST, totally alone, totally at peace. The back door was open, a breeze was slowly fanning the curtains, and the smell of burning garbage was not present.

It could be the ease with which I bike around town, on my motorcycle, free to roam into the rice fields, up mountains, and visit a waterfall about 30 stories high if I so chose. Or maybe it's due to the fact that my students showed up to present their final projects and about a third of them began by thanking me for being their teacher, for giving them all that I did, and for being part of their lives for ten months. I know I'll miss the $17 massages at the Tugu Hotel where I can take a hot shower afterwards and talk in broken Bahasa Indonesia to Nunik, my incredible masseuse that also treated the ELF before me. Of course I'll miss the ELFs that I've come to know and love (Tana Toraja would not have been as fun without you ladies), and going to see a movie for a dollar fifty.

Either way, it's been real. I'm going to miss the constant sunshine and sudden pounding rain, the fresh melon juice, and the overall simplicity of living. The lack of pressure to look a certain way. The easy smiles given to me by people at my University who've never met me but know who I am. I'm not going to miss the cigarette smoke wafting into my lungs uninvited, the gender discrimination, the homophobia, the constant honking of horns, or the little critters that follow my every crumb.

After a week of heroic paperwork and packing, I leave for a few days of decompression in Ubud, the artistic capital of Bali. There I will visit Healers, make jewelry, and observe temple worship. June 24th I fly to Perth. I'm scheduled to start work on an orchard, and a woman named Emily is picking me up at the airport. I might travel to Brisbane, where I've been invited to go hiking and biking, or I might fall in love with Western Australia and stay put all four weeks. Before landing on Chicago soil I'll spend one more weekend in Malang with my two Indonesian families, soaking up their hospitality and kindness.

Once back in Chi-town I have a place to stay while I find the perfect apartment, and a film to shoot in Pennsylvania in mid August with two of my genius film making friends. I plan to go on roller coasters at Great America, spend ample time at the beach, be with the people I left behind as much as possible, and bone up on my tarot card reading.

All in all, it's going to be a great summer. I can feel it.

An Education

It’s happening again. The same phenomenon occurred in Chicago as soon as I knew I was moving to Indonesia. Suddenly, I have an out. I can see the circle of light at the end of a very long tunnel, and my vitality returns. I’m enjoying each and every day like it could be the last. What is it about endings that make one feel like they just began?

I have five more weeks of teaching. My return flight to Chicago has been booked. Various Australian farms are awaiting my arrival. And of course, my services are more in need at my University than ever.

It’s been a packed month or so... Where to begin?

I’ll start at the canteen. I eat lunch most weekdays on campus because it’s convenient and cheap (about a dollar per meal). The other day I went to feast on some mie ayam (noodles in a chicken broth...DE-licious) with Wayan, when two women from my department saw us walk in and asked us to join them amidst the throng of students. I’d seen them before as they had attended my workshops on campus, but we’ve never spent any time together socially. They are both 26, both Muslim, and both unmarried. One wears a jillbob, the other does not. The uncovered teacher is really assertive and smart. I remember her comments at my presentations, and I recall being quite impressed with her. The lady with the covered head (forgive me, I’m terrible with names) is also very smart, but much less forthright.

About 10 minutes into our meal, Wayan had to leave, so the three of us starting chatting. They asked the usual questions about how much time I had left (not long), when was my next presentation at our University (possibly never), and what was I going to do when I left (pick some apples in Australia for a month). The conversation then morphed into: “So, as an American, what has been the hardest thing about living here for you?” I responded that I don’t like feeling so watched all the time, and that I felt like there is an Indonesian Courtney, and a dormant American Courtney (who sometimes needs to be dusted off and shaken out at home while listening to hip hop). Mostly, I feel restricted here by cultural “norms”, or rules, that people live by. I have to look a certain way, talk a certain way, and keep all skeletons firmly in the closet. They quickly added that they indeed understood. I paused. How could they? They live here. This is THEIR world. I raised an eyebrow, asking how they felt limited, and they said they are routinely grilled about their unmarried status. In Indonesia, the panic sets in at about 24 (according to them), and after that, you better get engaged or dry up and float away. Neither of them want to marry any time soon. They love their life: their job, their friends, their freedom. Being married means giving most of that up. Men are in charge here, and when they tell their friends that they teach so much because they enjoy it, they endure comment such as: “She’s working so many hours to escape marriage. Something is wrong with her.” Now, this revelation probably doesn’t come as a surprise, but it was the first time I’d sat down with local teachers and had such a candid conversation. It’s one of the first times I felt like I was on the same page with my colleagues on a personal level. We continued to talk for probably an hour, about teaching, being a women in Indonesia, men, our students, etc. They asked me advice on what to do with their students, I tried to offer up what I could, and then they bemoaned the fact that I had to leave so soon. And in that moment, so did I. The need for reform is so great here that I have moments of wishing I could stay. The less time I have, the more I love East Java.

One of the perks of living here are the numerous temples dotting the landscape. Last weekend I made it out to the number one tourist attraction in Indonesia: Borobudur. It was crawling with locals and international tourists. Quite overwhelming. I took an overnight travel van 8 hours West to get there, as I’m trying to hold on to my remaining rupiah (the van is ten dollars each way). Thus, I opted to sleep in upon arrival instead of book the sunrise tour. If I ever go again, I’m not going at 10am on a Saturday. Nothing about it felt sacred, and I was overcome with an urge to tell all the people crawling atop the Buddhas to sit down and look, but for the love of the Universe, don’t touch. In 50 years, humans will have once again eroded history. It’s a shame. Not many 9th century structures of this magnitude remain.

The highlight was Mendut, which sits a few miles away from Borobudur. It is a small Buddhist temple away from the crowds, with incense burning and a real feeling of thousands of years of prayers being whispered under its cool peaked roof. Few people were around. I sat there, staring at the three Buddhas sitting next to each other, and just thanked whoever brought me there. I could have stayed for hours. I wanted to lay on the ground and soak it all up. There is nothing so peaceful as thousands of years of altruism in one concentrated spot.

This was my second time to Yogya, and I enjoyed the international food at every opportunity (out of this world Indian food, and spectacular pizza with WINE-- God bless WINE)! I was lucky enough to see a few American friends on this trip, both new and old. Before leaving Central Java, I took a trip to Prambanan village, where 16 of 224 Hindu temples still remain. Also crawling with tourists, this place was a little less oppressive, and for me, the Hindus have it right. I always feel safe and comfortable among their traditions. Statues sat inside each temple, honoring the gods and goddesses individually. It’s a soothing feeling stepping inside one of them as you transition from the hot, sweaty sun into the damp stone structure; the only sunlight filtering in from a single doorway, bathing the treasures inside with minimal light. My favorite was the four headed goddess. Unreal. If I could go back, I would. Maybe someday I will.

Speaking of Hindu traditions, I had the pleasure of participating in a monthly ritual last week. It was the full moon, and Wayan’s family was making their routine offerings. The materials: a single knife, a pile of coconut leaves, and handful of bamboo sticks. The product: beautiful hand made baskets constructed to hold rice, fruit, sweets, and other foods for the gods. I was over at Wayan’s for some mundane reason, and her Mom was sitting in the living room, on the floor, quietly working. She speaks no English, so our interactions are usually minimal. This time Wayan asked if I wanted to see what her Mom was doing. I came in, feeling guilty for my terrible language skills, and peered at the pile of art gathering around her. All organic materials, and all intricately woven with her hands over a period of patient hours. I sat down with Wayan, was handed a pile of leaves, and shown what to do. It took a few practice runs, but twenty minutes later I was doing a pretty good job. As usual, the power went out mid-project, at which point Wayan lit a few candles and we continued our work. I’m not sure how long I sat there, but as I listened to them giggle and converse in Indonesian, I felt my blood pressure lower, my heart beat slow, and my breathing roll in and out like waves. The only thing I can liken this activity to is knitting. It was so relaxing, so natural, and left me feeling quite proud of the fact that I was sitting in an Indonesian living room, weaving a basket for the moon, with two women who amaze and humble me routinely. We stopped because our stomachs were begging for food, and as I walked to the noodle shop with my Indonesian sister, I understood why the Balinese live such long lives. Ritual is important. Doing the same thing daily, monthly, with your family sitting all around you is so good for the soul. It’s subtle meditation. It’s restorative medicine. It was a lovely afternoon.

-----

I’ve said this before, and I’ll risk repeating myself again. I teach because I love learning from my students. There is so much I don’t know and never will, but as the person in charge of the classroom, I’m subjected to the opinions and reactions of each one of my pupils. It’s exhausting, yet enriching. I’ve been with some of my students since September now, which is a long time considering the longest I have students in Chicago is ten weeks. I know these kids now (I’m sorry, in Indonesia, a 20 year old is a kid). I am starting to understand them, and form real bonds. I adore them. And every so often one of them gives me a swift slap across the face. Metaphorically, of course.

I have this male student named Ahda who is whip smart. He’s also tall, which is unusual, and has a very deep voice with a rich vocabulary. His face is friendly and broad, and he tends to lean forward in class, listening to me but not taking me too seriously. In my American Studies class, we’re up to the 1970s, and that means it was time to touch upon the taboo topics: abortion and gay rights. Two nights ago I showed my class the film Milk for our weekly movie, based on the true story of Harvey Milk, the San Francisco politician who was murdered for his trail blazing bravery. I knew this was going to be a fraught evening, as Indonesians are not known for their easy acceptance of homosexuals. It’s against Muslim religion, and most people here find gay people “disgusting” (quoting my students response to witnessing the gay community in action, on film, from their recent reaction journals). In anticipation of their innate resistance to this topic, I glibly warned them to “leave religion at the door and think like an American” while watching this film. I explained that I would be remiss to teach an American Studies class without mentioning Stonewall or Mr. Milk, as it’s part of our history and culture. Therefore, I was going to risk their adverse reactions in order to educate them on another country and the lifestyles of the people within it.

About ten minutes before I was scheduled to start the film, Ahda walked up to me in the control booth. He asked if he could have a few minutes of my time. He was shaking. I said of course. And the conversation proceeded something like this:

A: Ma’am, I wanted to tell you that I’m having a really hard time.

Me: Ok. With what?

A: I’m sorry if this is bothering you, but, this topic is really really hard for me.

Me: Which topic? Gay Rights?

A: Yes.

Me: Ok. I know it’s not very common here.

A: Well, you see, you said, in class, to “leave religion at the door” when we watch this movie, and, well, I can’t do that. Ever. I was born Muslim. And it’s against our religion. This is who I am. I can’t leave it at the door. I’m sorry.

Me: That’s fair. Perhaps my comment was a bit harsh.

A: I’m sorry Miss, but, I’m trying. I really am. I’ll try to “watch this movie as an American”, because I want to learn, but I am who I am, and I just can’t not be me, you know?

Me: Yes, that makes sense. I don’t want you to be anyone but you, and again, I’m sorry if that was too harsh a statement. It’s hard for me to understand what it is to feel so strongly about God. But I respect where you’re coming from, and I really appreciate you talking to me. Be yourself, but just try to keep an open mind.

A: I will. Ok. I’m sorry to bother you.

Me: I’m glad you did. I’m sorry that I made you feel like I was asking you to change who you are. I’m not. I just want you to learn how other people live in other cultures. You don’t have to like it.

A: Ok, thank you. I’m trying. I really am.

Me: I know you are. Thank you.

A: Ok, thanks Miss. Sorry to bother you. (Exit)

As I type this, it’s hard not to get choked up. Who am I to tell anyone to leave their God “at the door”? Sometimes my innate privilege (being from a free country, bring able to chose whether or not I worship a God, being born after a certain decade) rears it’s ugly head and my big mouth loses all tact. Just when I thought I “got” this culture, I’m reminded that I don’t have a clue what it’s like to live in a world where God rules all. Not that I mind. I believe someone (maybe God, maybe not) gave humans great minds and those minds are meant to learn, not to follow a leader like cows in a herd. I’m not saying religion is about being mindless, but I had forgotten that my students are proud to be who they are, and for me to ask them to remove a part of themselves is exactly opposite of what I’m trying to achieve here.

I want them to be unafraid of change. I want them to think for themselves. And yet, in doing so, I inadvertently instructed them to think like me.

Looks like I still have a lot to learn. Thank you Ahda. You and Harvey Milk have more in common than you know.

Parting is such sweet sorrow...

It was a short, but wonderful, relationship. Perhaps star crossed from the very beginning, we lived together in easy companionship. Each morning I would wake up and open the back door, finding her waiting on the other side. I’d feed her, pet her, tell her good morning, and go about my routine of making tea and toast. When I left for the day, I’d say goodbye, give her more affection, and leave her to the backyard where she could chose between the sun and the rain, the shelter or the sky.

After a full day of work, before the front door was shut behind me, I could hear her meowing hello. I’d put down my bags, run to the back, and let her in. She’d purr, wrapping herself around my feet (I think she secretly loved it when I tripped), and meow for dinner. As I turned on the music, or the cable, she’d sit in the living room, watching me, or crawl underneath the television, finding a secure place between stacks of DVDs to nestle. We’d watch movies and American Idol together (I actually got sucked in this season...never thought that would happen, but they got me). When I felt restless, I’d sit in back with her, looking up at the sky, and we’d enjoy the sounds of Malang at night.

She had the loudest purr of any cat I’d ever met. It was a small roar, like an engine running, or a tiger snoring. While she laid in the sun, she’d turn herself on her back and cover her eyes with one paw. Other times, when I was rubbing just the right corner of her back, she’d lift up her hind legs and lower her front legs, dip her head in between her paws, and rub her chin and cheeks on the ground with glee. When I’d had a bad day, she was always there, walking around my body sat next to her on the tiles, crashing into my crossed legs, looking at me with those huge blue eyes. Sometimes she’d suddenly roll onto her back, turning from side to side, and let me pet her stomach. For a stray cat who’d seen nothing but trash and exhaust fumes, she was so loving and endlessly sweet. She made my house warm. She made being alone so peaceful. She was my girl, and we were in this together.

However, recently she’d stopped eating. I noticed her drinking a lot more water, and when I pet her, I felt more bone than flesh. One day (skip this part if small squiggly things gross you out) I saw a white worm crawl inside of her body, underneath her tail. Parasites are one thing, but the hernia on her lower body was also growing. She’d been on her special food from the vet for a month, so it was time to take her in for another blood test. I got the text Friday morning that not only were her kidneys still bad, but her liver was also failing. The blood test showed that her body was giving up. Her restricted diet had bought her more time, but could not cure her condition.

When I’d brought her to the vet, I was not prepared to leave her there. I went in to see her the next day, and could tell she was done. Her skin felt leathery, and she refused to look at me. I’d never seen her so hopeless. She knew she didn’t have much time. That morning she’d thrown up worms. The vet said the only thing that could save her was a kidney and liver transplant with a blood transfusion, and they don’t do that here in Indonesia. The vet said that if I force fed her daily, she maybe had anywhere from a few days to a few weeks left. I couldn’t imagine staying home with her, making her eat when it was clear she was ready to go. All of this information was delivered with Bonni, my wonderful Indonesian friend, at my side. He translated everything in a calm, even tone, grabbing my shoulder for strength when I felt it draining out from my feet.

This morning I returned, and although we’d both tried our hardest, we let go. Stella was ready. She’d given it her all. She’d survived so much, and lived longer than most others would have. All I wanted for her was to know that she was loved before she passed, and I think she got the message. As the injections were taking hold, she let out a little noise, like a purr, before she went completely still. The vet and her assistant were amazingly gentle and kind. I could tell this was their least favorite part of the job. They treated her with the utmost respect and reverence, placing her body into a comfortable pose and cleaning her of dirt and blood before wrapping her in her favorite blanket.

They buried her this afternoon, in a pet cemetery across from the clinic. I felt that being there for her passing was enough. Her body was only a vessel. Her spirit was what I fell in love with. She was tough, kind, and so very brave. We had so much fun. I miss her presence all around the house. Although I never let her sleep indoors, I could always tell she was just on the other side of the wall. Sometimes she’d see the tiny lizards that hang out, eating mosquitoes, and chase them hilariously, running from one side of the cabinet to the other, waiting for them to emerge. She hated the bawdy bobcat that strutted atop the roofs of the neighborhood, and would wait for me in the kitchen when he came calling for her. We knew each other’s patterns and habits. We took care of each other.

Every other time I’ve had to let cats go, my Mom has always been there to handle the dirty work, to make the tough decisions. This was the first goodbye I had to handle on my own (aside from Bonni), as an adult. I had sworn she wouldn’t die on my watch, but learning how to deal with death is part of life. Stella chose me, perhaps, just as much as I chose her. She needed someone during her last months, and I’m grateful it was me. I’ve always been an animal lover, but I think she came into my life to teach me, in part, how to let go. Relationships have their own expiration dates. They don’t always end with our permission. The wisdom comes in knowing when it’s time.

-----

Since my last entry, life has been full. I was lucky enough to travel to the jungles of Borneo in order to observe gorgeous and funny orangutans in the wild (along with Proboscis and macaque monkeys). That weekend on the boat, floating down rivers, healed something in me and opened my eyes to how small we are, and how essential it is to restore the health of the forests and her species. Then came the Hindu holiday on the beach, next to (and in) a six hundred year old temple. Last weekend was spent on the island of Lembongan, which is located off the south east coast of Bali. There I saw my first stretch of black sand, snorkeled amidst pink, blue, yellow, green, and orange fish, and hung out with some of the other Fellows as one of us turned 30. Next week brings the month of April, and with that comes more plans of final trips in May and eventually returning home.

Classes are going really well. I’m learning things I was never taught in school in order to teach my students how not to view the world through blinders (I'll do my best). Our weekly movies are inspiring and entertaining. I love coming back to them on Monday nights and observing their reactions to films about American culture. As I gather more and more information on each decade, I’m both horrified and empowered by the history of my country, and so very grateful I can return to it. Although, as I’ve been going to my weekly language lessons, I’m more at ease here than I’ve ever been. Understanding breeds patience, and the more I know about how the local people communicate, the more I’m watching my world perspective shift. I found myself hanging out with faculty members on the stone wall outside the department the other day, enjoying the fantastic weather, laughing with them about the many ways to misunderstand language cues across cultures. It was a conversation fit for nerds, no doubt, but one I’d never even tried to share with them before. I felt truly included for probably the first time since becoming part of that department, and for a moment, the internal politics vanished.

I’m able to compare where I come from to where I am on a less personal level now, as my comfort and ability to communicate grow wider. I recently found out that on Indonesian identification cards, citizens are required to print not only their date of birth, address, sex, height, etc...but also their marital status, religion, and occupation. Something so simple explains quite a lot. I’m still woken up daily by the call to prayer (and people wonder why I go to Bali so often--I can actually sleep there), but it bothers me less when I know that the man who teaches me Bahasa Indonesia makes $170 per month. Less than two hundred dollars A MONTH. And he’s happy. They all are. Indonesians are happy with enough. They don’t need more. If their car takes them to and from work, it doesn’t matter if it was manufactured in 1981, or if the shade of blue it’s covered in is out of fashion. A local family told me that they live on $7,000 a year, quite comfortably, and I exhaled my shame of feeling poor making only 30 grand annually in Chicago. I no longer wonder what the hell is wrong with Indonesia as much as I wonder how I’m going to function back in the good old USA. I frequently can’t wait to go home, but I’m not sure I know how to live like an American anymore.

I know I’ll figure it out. I’ve got time. Thankfully. I have a body that has yet to give up on me. I have memories of souls, both human and animal, that have altered mine irrevocably. And for that, I am so thankful. Goodbye sweet Stella. May your spirit find a body fit for a Queen.

Saving Stella

I was recently adopted by a cat. Months ago this little white scraggy looking creature started hanging around my house. Out of pity, I put out my tuna cans for consumption. She'd eat, then skulk away, and maybe come back a few days later. This went on for a while, and then she disappeared. I think perhaps to have kittens, who I don't think survived, as she, at the time, looked quite pregnant and walked with a limp.

Fast forward to about two weeks ago. My little friend had returned, and this time regularly. I bought actual cat food and she camped herself in front of my house, not moving a great deal. Her eyes were usually half closed and glassy, she was filthy, and quite lethargic. Then one morning I went to open my front gate to leave for school and she ran across my front yard, startled by the noise. However, her "run" was lopsided and clumsy, as if her left rear leg wasn't properly in the socket. She looked terrible. I had to do something. I could no longer watch this creature suffer on my doorstep.

I came into work unable to concentrate. My co-workers suggested we ask the people in the Animal Husbandry department (their version of a Veterinarian) if they could help. When I walked into their office, I met the "vet", a 28 year old woman who looked no older than 18, about five feet tall and 100 pounds soaking wet. They were kind and the vet's assistant spoke decent English. She gave me her cell phone number and told me to call her if the cat continues to get worse. They offered to come to my house and check on her. I breathed a sign of relief. Thank God for animal lovers.

Later that afternoon I found her in the back lot behind my place. There was blood on her tail and she could not walk. She looked like she hadn't had access to fresh water in weeks. I called the vet. They arrived with medical supplies in hand and we spent a good 30 minutes getting her into a box and had to inject her with a sedative to calm her down, scratches and bites covering our arms. She was so dehydrated her skin stuck together when we pinched it, and although her leg was not broken, she howled when we touched her hip. After much negotiation and translation we hoped in a cab to take her to a vet across town that had the proper X-Ray machine. Once there, they tried to insert an IV into her arms, but her veins had already collapsed and the only way to get water into her system was to inject it directly under her skin. That seemed to work, thankfully. The X-Rays showed her leg was dislocated from the hip. She was, however, too weak for surgery of any kind.

We decided she needed to recover back at the clinic on my campus. In the cab ride there we almost lost her. She laid in a cardboard box on my lap, and I never took my hand off of her. Her body temperature was getting quite low, and she wasn't moving. My dormant maternal instincts kicked in and I swore to myself this cat was not going to die on my watch. I sat there, in the dark, pouring rain and traffic outside the window, helpless tears begging to fall down my checks, promising her she was going to live. Willing her to keep breathing.

Two days later, after constant visitations and love, the vet suggested I take her home to recover at my house. The responsibility was huge, but I couldn't say no. As we were about to put her in the carrier I had purchased for the transfer, I was informed that in addition to her dislocated leg, she also had a hernia. The poor thing must have been so uncomfortable. But again, there was nothing they could do until she got stronger. I was apparently the first "native" speaker they had had as a client, so before we left they took pictures of me, got my contact information, and asked if they could come to my house on occasion to practice their English. I said of course. These women saved an animal's life and I owed them so much. Before I left the vet looked at me and said, "I'm so glad I met you". The feeling was mutual.

I've had her for 6 days now, and the first 4 were quite stressful. She barely moved and ate sporadically. I had to force fluids into her mouth with a syringe, which she hated. I kept an eye on her, giving her love and affection as much as possible while still trying to respect that she is a wild animal. Then, two nights ago, she turned a corner. She went from resenting me for capturing her to purring like mad every time she saw me. She now wolfs her food gratefully and walks around my back "yard" on her own. I'm not sure what happened, but I'm a lot less fearful to come home at the end of the day. I named her Stella for her strength and will to live. She reminds me of the Tennessee Williams character in so many ways. She's a survivor, and a welcome addition to my life.

I don't let her in the house because she is indeed dirty and loves to sit among the plants and bugs in the back garden. But I now eat my meals and check my email in the back with her, and we sit down each night and chat. She likes to watch the rain and lay sprawled out in the sun. My goal is to let her stay at my place for another week or so, and then take her back to the vet for the necessary operations. I'm also going to get her fixed. She doesn't need anymore dying babies, as I'm pretty sure if she did have kittens, they didn't make it (however, now I know it could have been her hip/hernia causing the lopsided stride). This whole process has been expensive, but if I don't take care of her, no one will. She chose me. I will not let her down.

I will eventually let her back out into the "wild", but only when her body can handle it. When I leave for Chicago, I hope to find a local family to look after her.

It's so nice having another living creature at my house. I've come to accept (and admit) that I'm fairly lonely in my huge house alone. I recently installed cable t.v. because I couldn't stand not hearing conversation around me any longer. And the four types of HBO don't hurt.

In other news, I've been buried under books about US History and culture. I'm teaching two sections of American Studies this term and have never been so excited about a class. I've been in constant touch with friends from home, asking for help in making this course as exciting and rich as possible. I've ordered quite a few movies and books online and literally dream about their arrival and reception by my students. I'm also teaching Drama again, but this time Shakespeare and pre-modern works. Challenging to say the least. I cannot wait!

My class schedule allows ample time for travel this semester. Next weekend I'm planning to visit Borneo with the other Courtney in Malang to drop in on some orangoutangs in the jungle. I have a good feeling about my last four months. I'll keep you all posted.

A Hermitic Mid Year Report

Blaming Indonesia is counterproductive. It’s not an entire archipelago's fault that I’m stick. Again. The island of Java wouldn’t even blink if I left. But I can’t, and I won’t. The show must go on.

I feel like a fraud. You see, I like teaching. I do. Sometimes I even love it. Every job has aspects that are unpleasant. With teaching, it’s the planning and the grading that I detest. When I’m in the classroom, or working with a student one on one, I’m happy. When I’m talking directly with my pupils, watching recognition flash across their faces as they “get” something for the first time, I couldn’t ask for anything more. But when I have a stack of papers to grade, I freeze. I literally have to force myself to do the work. And it’s a painful process.

I’m not a terrible teacher. Sometimes I’m even decent. There have been moments when I would dare say I was kind of good. However, to be honest and risk looking like a selfish, horrible person, my primary reason for applying for this Fellowship was financial. And when you do anything for the sole purpose of money, nine times out of ten, you realize that although money makes the world go round, it also can never, ever, buy contentment. Lesson learned.

A ways back I read in some book (probably The Power of Now) that “dis-ease” is caused by an imbalance in your life. We all know stress makes us sick. I also believe that living the life you were not supposed to live also makes you sick. Very sick. Finding balance, no matter where you live, is a life saver.

What gave me balance in Chicago was having the privilege to teach during the day, and then having the pleasure of going to rehearsal at night to work with a group of artists: creating a piece of live theater. I’ve come to understand that yes, I do use theater in the classroom, but more than that, both teaching and theater are harbingers of change. That look of comprehension that flashes across a student’s face when you’ve finally explained something in a way they can understand is the same as the look on an audience member’s face when they walk out of a stunning piece of theater with eyes glazed and a small smile dancing on their lips. If the teacher is good, and the production is good, you walk away from both the classroom and the theater a different person. And that is what I want to do with my life. I want to be part of that process in others. I want people to walk out of my classroom, or my theater, altered, and better for it.

But I need both. I need teaching (and my students) to keep me intellectually challenged, grounded and sane. I need acting (and the audience) to keep me creative, inquisitive and expressive. With only one and not the other I tip over, a scale with one end up and the other on the floor. Hence my recent fever of 102, stomach cramps, and porridge for a week while watching Grey’s Anatomy and weeping into my hoodie. Tidak bagus Berne.

Let me backtrack (I know, I do that a lot) and say that I admire teachers as much as I admire Meryl Streep. My senior year English teacher in high school, Mr. Malone, will remain infamous in my memoirs. He taught me the beauty of literature and poetry; the prowess and relentless acumen necessary to properly dissect a piece of true genius like an e.e. cummings poem, or a Shakespeare play. And Dr. Nike Imaru, my fierce Theater teacher from England will always live in my mind to remind me to push myself, find the answer, dig deeper and never give up searching. Teachers are heroes. I may not be into pedagogy, or type up my lesson plans, but I have the spirit and drive required for the classroom. And I’m able to see where I need improvement after a lesson doesn’t go as smoothly as it should have. I’ve never been short of that.

Why the excuses? This duel title of actor/teacher carries with it some explanation. People want you to chose. They want you to pick one and focus on it. But I’m saying it’s OK to want both. To need both. I’m an actor who teaches. Except, in Indonesia, I feel like a teacher who used to act. And it’s wearing me out. The jig is up.

This brings me to why I got out of bed to write this entry. Today is the half way point. I arrived five months ago. I have five months remaining. With my latest bout of illness I seriously considered going home. I’m tired of the misdiagnoses, the “maybe it’s this, or maybe it’s that, but we don’t really know and have no way of knowing, so take some mylanta and sleep”. I miss Western medicine (I know, I’ve lost a lot of fluids), the certainty of science. I miss tests that come back conclusive. I miss doctors NOT laughing at you when you say it feels like there is a hole burning through your stomach. But that’s what I signed up for. I asked for this. I said yes to ten months of teaching in a developing country where there is no real theater.

In times like these I have a few tactics. Movies and tarot cards are my main sources of insight. When I can’t go to rehearsal, I pull three cards and listen. The first card is where I’m coming from. The middle card is the bridge that I must cross, and the last card is where I’m headed. As usual, Mr. Crowley was right on. The Queen of Disks was the first, and boy can I relate to her right about now. The Hermit fell into the middle. And at the end awaits the Wheel of Fortune. According to the little book inside the tarot card box (“Instructions for Aleister Crowley’s Thoth Tarot Deck”), The Hermit signifies: “Illumination from within. Divine inspiration. Wisdom. Prudence. Circumspection. Retirement from participation in current events.” Damn, he’s good.

Last night I watched the adorable and uplifting Julie & Julia and received confirmation that I am indeed where I’m supposed to be. Indonesia is my Hermit card. This is a journey. Sort of like a very long intermission. But like any good theater goer (or teacher) you do not leave when the actors are taking a break, or when the students look confused. Hedda Gabbler does not walk off stage if she’s just not feeling it. Blanche Dubois does not suddenly tell Stanley he’s right and leave the apartment to go get herself a life. That is why Julie Powell made all 524 of Julia Child’s recipes; because she said she would.

I’m not going anywhere. At least, not for my remaining five months. This show most certainly will go on. And when it’s over, there will be many more. This Hermit has some balancing to do.

You give me Fever

It's been awhile, I know. To backtrack: December was an incredibly busy time with out of town speaking engagements, end of semester duties, and travel planning. And then the Dengue hit. Hit me hard. From now on I swear by mosquito repellent.

Dengue Fever is spread by tropical mosquitoes that bite during the day. There is no vaccine against this, nothing to do besides wear protective cream and arm your house with anti-mosquito oils and plug-in killers at every outlet. About a week before leaving for my semester break vacation, I was exhausted and burning with an internal fever that made me feel like a caged animal wanting to claw out of her confines. I went to my acupuncturist for treatments, and talked to friends who took me to pharmacies for pills. I thought I had worms or was maybe hosting a parasite. And then I showed up at my weekly dance lesson, unable to stand up. Toto, my teacher, suggested he and his wife take me to see one of their friends who happens to be a doctor. Thank God he did.

The first word this doctor said to me while shaking my hand was, “Fever!” I was burning up. My eyelids, feet, knees, everything felt like it was on fire. I don’t think Peggy Lee was referring to this when she sang the infamous “Fever” as it was nothing like the moody pop song indicates. I wanted to pell off my skin and bath in ice cubes. I wanted to jump out the window and float to Antarctica on an iceberg while licking icicles. Dr. Saraswati asked me some questions as I sat slumped over in a chair, and left the room to get my “treatment”. I should mention that this woman runs an alternative clinic and has cured cancer with her esoteric remedies. Normally a fan of non-Western medicine, I was quaking with fear that my trip would be canceled and I’d die in Indonesia, evaporating on the spot. Dengue effects your brain. My thoughts were as rapid fire as my pulse, and as foggy as smoke from a house fire. Another reason why I didn’t update my blog in December.

My task was to drink a concoction every three hours around the clock until the “medicine” ran out. I was handed a plastic bottle filled with brown liquid labeled “Kopi 2”. I was told to mix three table spoons of this liquid (which was a mixture of Chinese herbs and instant coffee) with honey, adding two egg whites and one egg yolk. Raw. She put my first dose in front of me and told me to either plug my nose or close my eyes and don’t think as I swallowed. I did my best, but the smell of raw egg and the consistency of human mucus made me gag. Bring brave, I finished my cup and grabbed the nearest candy (which was waiting next to the cup) to get ride of the vile taste. She smiled and said I had done well. This was to be my only job for the next few days. Rest, and drink this. When I asked her how much I owed for the treatment, she replied that I was a friend of a friend and to not worry about payment. Which is ironic, because I actually have health insurance for the first time in years, and I’ve not used it once.

I had my blood drawn three times over the next week, and my red blood cell count did rise due to doctor’s orders. Two days after seeing Dr. Saraswati, I was a crying heap of heat, aching all over and wishing I could just sleep (in a bed of ice). My dear and wonderful friend Wayan had to stay by my bedside for 24 hours straight, waking me up to feed me my “eggs and coffee” every three. Without her, I’m not sure I’d be here, typing this. I had the kind of Dengue that causes internal bleeding due to burst capillaries in your lower intestines, and 5% of those cases end up being fatal. It was just my luck that I was bitten by a really evil mosquito.

My vacation was postponed three days as I rested and started to feel confident walking across a room again. Wayan cooked for me and felt my forehead, making sure I didn’t exhaust myself in my stubborn attempt to be healthy. Miri and Toto also bought me groceries, stocking my fridge with these electrolyte drinks that I was instructed to swallow regularly. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to my two Indonesian families for being with me while I was so sick. At almost 32 it’s no less scary being ill when you’re so far away from home.

Instead of spending 3 days in Bali before Australia, I was there for less than 24 hours, leaving Supafly on her own in our hotel room to grade papers. Once I arrived, I knew I was not back to my old self, but I put my faith, once again, in non-traditional healing remedies and pop culture. For those of you who have read the best-selling novel Eat, Pray, Love you will know who I’m referring to when I say I went to see the infamous Wayan in Ubud. Jules and I walked into her “clinic” (more like a restaurant/massage parlor/organic heaven) and spent the next five hours receiving treatment. I told her about the Dengue, and she made me drink a series of five different herbal teas with leaves plucked from her garden. Before I knew it, I was sweating out the last of the Fever. Everything we put in our mouths was straight from Mother Earth, and it all had innate healing powers that I could actually feel restoring my system. She then read our palms and did a body/energy check, explaining where our systems were weak, and telling us how many babies/husbands we would have.

The Balinese take their time, and we were not the only “patients” in her care. She was able to walk between tables of people, giving us all what we sought in due time. That being said, nothing was private, and my future was read aloud in front of total strangers who walked passed wrapped in sarongs post bath. To make sure all ran smoothly, Wayan had cooks in her kitchen making organic vegetarian meals and boys that massaged and bathed her clients. We were the last to spend time in the upstairs portion of her den, which was an unforgettable experience. I’ve been receiving massages since high school, but I’ve never been adorned with garlic, ginger, herbs, oils, and other organic material while being massaged by three, yes three, young men at once. One on each side, and one at my head/shoulders. This was all in an open air environment, with Jules laying in the bed next to me and the sound of people walking up and down the worn wooded stairs with more supplies to use on our bodies. At one point Wayan stood between our tables as we lay in total relaxation and joked “In your country, they don’t give you three men at once, do they?” We all laughed. Certainly not. To cap off the experience I was then escorted to the bathroom, where I was bathed by one of my massage boys and an elderly woman, wrinkled and brown, in the most loving and non-threatening way imaginable as hot water cleansed my skin and the Fever circled down the drain.

I walked away knowing the Dengue had left me for good, but as the evening wore on, I could feel a head cold creeping into its place. Part of the massage was meant to drain your lymph nodes, and I was still filled with toxins. I tried to drink tea and rest, but by the time I woke up the next day, I was sick. This time with the run of the mill head cold. I took this illness to Australia with me, hoping I could sleep it off.

We spent an extra day in Bali due to a mechanical malfunction on the plane and were put up in a five star hotel by the airline for 24 hours as compensation. I took that opportunity to sleep, but I was angry at my body for failing to recover, and wanting more than anything to be Down Under instead of down and out. Once again patience was my only tool. I had to keep breathing and hoping that I’d heal.

We arrived, this time with Cooky in tow, in Sydney on Christmas Eve. I was still under the weather, and took in the sights of Balmain, the neighborhood we were staying in, slowly. By now I was going through a box of tissues every two days and looking like I’d survived, well, dengue fever, but I tried to keep my spirits up as we celebrated an orphan Christmas with a few Brits and Aussies also away from home. Being that it was the middle of summer in Sydney, it was perhaps the most surreal holiday I’ve ever had, but I was happy to be on a new continent.

Something I noticed right away was the release of tension in my body once arriving in a country where I was no longer the “other”. Here I could wear what I wanted, do what I wanted, and no one even thought to look at me twice (unless I opened my mouth, in which case I was asked what part of the States I was from). What also may have added weight to my awareness was the fact that I was in the process of reading Infidel by Ayaan Hirsi Ali (thank you Penny--I couldn’t put it down either) and although it made me grateful for living in a more or less “liberal” Moslem country, I still had over 5 more months under the watchful eyes of Allah. Being in Oz was exactly what I needed. My defensive armor began to fade within an hour of Sydney living. And you can drink the water Down Under. I practically ran from drinking fountain to water spout with abandonment and glee, skipping and splashing like a lunatic.

The only discomfort was the change in price from Indonesia to Australia. While in Sydney my accommodations were mostly free, thanks to Jules’s friend Natalie and her house-sitting gig, and that helped, but my US dollars no longer went a long way. That said, it was worth it, as my days were soon filled with moments I will treasure for years to come.

I’m saving the savory moments for my good old fashioned pen and paper journal (as I still guard the private and dole out the public in spurts), but I will touch upon the next leg of my journey and let the facebook photos tell the rest.

December 27th marked our departure to Hunter Valley, which is located about 2 hours outside of Sydney. We rented a car for the journey (which I drove for a brief 15 minutes before realizing that I had the parking break on...not used to cars after months on a motorbike) which proved stunning as we passed through forests and rolling hills. I saw my first kangaroo on the drive, and had a smile plastered on my face the whole time. Once in the Valley, we checked into our YHA room and picked a bunk bed (I’d been staying in the bunk bed of a five year old boy in Sydney, so I was used to this by now). Then it was off to wine tasting for the next few days, which I did gingerly as I knew drinking was not conducive to improving my immune system. Not a huge fan of wine (read: I have a low tolerance), I did enjoy the many varieties of vino and the craftsmanship that went into the making of said bottles. The people that ran the vineyards were an eclectic sort, and by the end of our day long tours, one of the owners was calling me “Chicago” while I giggled (I said I have a low tolerance) and poured the extra liquid in my glass into the spittoon while his back was turned. I hated to waste all that talent, but I am still a cheap date after all these years. At least now I have the capacity to stop myself before things get ugly (ie: before I fall asleep after two glasses).

Back in Balmain I stocked up on products you can’t find in the third world and continued my detox. While receiving a facial, the owner of the spa commented that not only were my pores clogged from not having access to hot water for four months to wash my face, but I had parasites in my chin. Apparently the products in Indo strip your skin of its natural moisture, so mine was over-producing oil to compensate. And that oil was building up because cold water does not dissolve it properly. I will now be wearing bug repellant AND boiling water on a daily basis.

New Years Eve proved low key with the most exciting part being the view of the stunning fireworks over the Harbor Bridge. New Years Day was spent at Manly Beach, which is just a ferry ride away from Balmain. The water temperature was a little below my comfort level, but I did find some shells to take back to Chicago, and I swam in a rock pool, which was, well, just a pool made of salt water. January 2nd was spent exploring more of the city, including the MCA and the Botanical Gardens (both lovely). On the 3rd we took a train to the Blue Mountains and hiked what was probably the most beautiful trail I have ever seen. Unfortunately the weather was misty and unseasonably cold, leaving the view from steep cliffs up to our imaginations. I felt like I was in the rain forest while also being cuddled by some ancient creature who only let us see 15 feet ahead of our noses (probably best considering my fear of heights). I also felt like I was alternating between scenes from The Neverending Story and Lord of the Rings, minus the Luck Dragon/Hobbit parts.

Sadly, the damp air and arduous hike left me with yet another chest cold, and I flew to Uluru feeling asthmatic and in desperate need of the desert. Our first night in Ayer’s Rock we went on a stargazing tour. From the middle of the Outback you can see both the Northern and Southern hemisphere stars at once. This was breathtaking. As an astronomy nerd I ate up the information our guide gave us about the constellations, planets, and solar systems. I could have looked through telescopes all night. The peace you feel when you realize how small we really are and how immeasurably large the universe is must be experienced every so often. I went to bed that night so very grateful for all that I was able to experience.

The activity just kept coming as the next morning I went on a sunrise tour and listened to an Aboriginal guide talk about life in the Bush. We sat in caves with ancient paintings and learned how to kill a kangaroo. The Aboriginals in Uluru have been there for 40,000 years, surviving on nature and ritual alone. Their culture is primitive (by our standards) but made sense to me. Duties are assigned to individuals in the group and responsibility is shared. They do not need currency (although, after the White Man came, of course things changed) and because there is no such thing as “possession”, they actually do not have a word for any number over 5. They figure if they have to count over 5, then there is too much of one thing and someone is being greedy. I was reminded of the Native Americans a lot when learning about the original Australians. Sometimes I think I should go back to school for a degree in anthropology as I ate up the information readily after years of enduring inadequate history lessons from teachers who should have retired long ago. Why we repeat patterns of dominance and cultural genocide throughout the world, I will never understand. I was, however, happy to learn what I could and tried to let the heartbreak of the damage that has been done to this indigenous culture go. We can only fix the future and maybe, some of us, can learn from the past.

Our last full day in Uluru was spent riding camels (a smile spreads across my face at the memory of these spectacular creatures) and walking through the Olgas, another huge natural rock formation in the middle of the desert. We watched the sun set this time, while drinking champagne (I barely finished my glass as trepidation over my health loomed) and learning more about Australian culture from our guides. I have to say I was very impressed by the tours given at the Ayer’s Rock Resort. Everything was professional, on time, well organized, and the people were fantastic. I’ve never laughed so hard with strangers in a foreign country. I was so at ease, and they made everyone on board feel welcome and comfortable. By the end of this last tour I was chatting with two older British men and a woman from Africa like we’d known each other for years. I love that about traveling. You build relationships quickly and with genuine interest.

Leaving Uluru was hard. I enjoyed the quiet beauty of the blood red landscape and the surreal hue of the bush. Flying over the Outback for the first time I swore I must have been hallucinating because the combination of the red earth, the mint blue shrubbery amidst light green trees seemed impossible. However, standing on that ground, carefully walking around ancient rock formations while listening to birds you’ve never heard before, feeling small but so very alive was incredible. The dry heat restored my lungs, and the relaxed atmosphere of the culture soothed my routine bouts of anxiety from teaching 90 Indonesian students on a regular basis.

There was less than 24 hours of turn around time between when I finally got back to Malang (suffered mechanical issues on the plane into Bali that delayed us 6 hours) and when I had to leave again for the island of Sulawesi to attend a teaching conference. My saving grace right now is the other English Language Fellows. We’re all fresh from vacations with stories to tell, wishing we had more time to transition. These ten wonderful people provide the perfect buffer to the abrasive and daunting environment I’ve returned to. Today alone went down as typically Indonesian as I watched teachers answer their cell phones while participating in training workshops and sat above crushed cigarette butts littering the tile floor of a University building. Let’s just hope I can keep the Fever at bay for the second half of my time overseas...