Time after time: the journey

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Time is so weird, and I am so jetlagged. A few days ago, I left from Lopez Island, one of the San Juan Islands off the coast of Washington state where I was attending my cousin's gorgeous wedding. From there, I took a ferry to a shuttle to the Seattle airport to begin my transition to Zambia. At 10PM I boarded a red-eye from Seattle to JFK in NYC. It's been five years since I've been inside an international terminal, and when I arrived the next morning, I was working on maybe 2 hours of sleep. I forced myself to eat breakfast at the airport diner and waited until I could check in. Thus began my longest flight/travel experience so far.

Eight seats across (I had the window). A movie screen in each seat back. Eye mask, ear plugs, blanket and pillow provided. Oh, how I missed this pampering coming from Spirit and then Frontier Airlines where the water costs money and the tray tables are 5 inches deep (because a full size tray table was out of the budget). South African Airlines was posh. The first half of this 14+ hour flight was spent with the shades drawn against a blazing white sky so us passengers could settle in to the time warp of spending the equivalent of two full nights in a row in a reclined position, eating carbs, dairy and sugar (they ran out of the “chicken” meal option so I got the calorie loaded vegetarian meal) next to a total stranger who also happened to be traveling internationally to do the world some good. As I was marveling at the luxury of it all, I wondered: does one watch a string of bad movies in a row and then cry at the almost good one because she was already sleep deprived? Does she try to sleep, multiple times, and fail despite the doses of melatonin? Perhaps she repeatedly shakes her head for leaving all of her power chords in the bag they made her check before this flight because it’s full of books and why the hell did she pack like someone immune to gravity? Apparently, one does all of those things. And then one realizes about half way through her train of thoughts and free in-flight films that the ring of white light no longer lines the window shades and curiosity strikes.

When I opened the oval curtain to peak, instead of the sun blinding me, I saw a split sky. Since we were heading east, to my right (west) on the horizon sat a lip of blazing sherbet with a thin blanket of prom dress pink atop it, before melting upwards into various shades of navy blue and finally asphalt gray. This extreme and stunning color combination stretched from the middle of my view to the tail of this massive bird. To my left: bright stars filled a completely black sky. We were smack in the middle of night and day. Then the glass got foggy because I may have smashed my face up against it and cried some more. Damn you Jason Bateman and Tina Fey and your stupid Hollywood movie playing in my seat back that didn’t suck enough for me not to blame this flood of tears entirely on jetlag.

These past few weeks many wonderful people have asked if I’m excited about this trip. The answers varied between half hearted “I’m sure I will be” to "Um, yeah, theoretically", or something equally as trite as that well-intentioned question. To be frank, I had my own hurdles to contend with that preceded this new chapter in my career, and now that those were behind me I could appreciate what was outside my window in the middle of that flight. A visual thinker to a fault, having never been to the continent of Africa before, this adventure was a blank canvas in my mind. However, on the plane ride over, that sky cut through the emotional exhaustion and became something tangible. It also could have been the uncomfortable and hot compression socks I was wearing for the first time which must mean I’m a grown up doing something very important. Or it means I grew up listening to Madonna and she’s fierce but needs to stop with the facial enhancements already because she has aged and I apparently have too. Either way, shit was about to get real.

And how. I'm not a good plane-sleeper, so when we touched down in Johannesburg, South Africa, I was silly with fatigue. I still had one more flight, and a long car ride waiting for me. The "J-Burg" airport was fine, aside from the fluorescent lights and dingy ceiling tiles. I found my connection after having to go through security again, and settled in on the floor outside my gate. No electronic devices I had on me worked, and I was too tired to care. Travelers from all over the world gathered around as we loaded onto a bus that took us to our plane. I heard accents from Australia, Europe, South Africa, England, as well as languages I couldn't identify. This is partly why I love my job. These timbers of language thrill me. Mingling together like a cultural tapestry, the world became very small as all of us gathered in this bus heading towards our final destination. A man from Nigeria sat next to me. He introduced himself and asked where I was going. I told him, and he said he'd seen me in NYC, waiting to board for South Africa and I'd looked very busy typing away at my computer. He was headed to give a presentation on renewable energy and told me he'd lived in Baltimore for the last thirty years. Something about his easy demeanor soothed me and although I was so exhausted I could have stretched across that floor and passed out, I was thankful for his friendly conversation. Bless his heart and confident handshake.

The 2.5 hour flight from South Africa to Zambia was quick. One minute I was looking at the plump, adorable baby sitting on the lap of her mother next to me and the next we were touching down in Ndola. So much for not being a plane-sleeper. I literally blacked out.

The terminal in Ndola is tiny. Two rooms: one for customs and the other for baggage claim. I didn't have to fill out a single form, just showed my passport, paid the man, and told him how long I intended to stay and where I was going. That was it. I now have a 30 day VISA I have to renew once in the nearest town, and I was free to go. I didn't care to question why that was so easy. Not unless that question led to a bed near some chimps.

Outside, a man with a sign that read "Courtney Berne Chimfunshi" waited for me. I have never been so grateful to see a stranger in my entire life. After exchanging my US dollars for Zambian kwacha, we jumped in his car and headed out. Pleasantries were exchanged in broken English (on both our parts...at this point I was fairly non-verbal) and he told me his name. It was not the name of the driver I was told would be coming for me. Huh. I asked some more questions to verify he was legit, but the more I asked, the less he wanted to talk. The air conditioning was broken and this guy apparently didn't like music. Perhaps I was about to be driven into the bush and no one would ever hear from me again? Sure, he had my last name and destination on a white sheet of paper, but these days, information like that is not hard to find. As I contemplated my options should we not end up at Chimfunshi in a few hours, I passed out again...the unattractive passing out where your head bobs forward and back on your neck and your mouth opens like a puppet with severed strings. I was woken up repeatedly by the massive caverns in the road. I don't say pot-holes because these were not holes. They were tiny vertical caves the car dipped into and slowly out of for the entire 4 hour drive. Evans, my mysterious driver, was to his credit very good at making sure our tires didn't pop. I don't know how cars here survive on these roads, and I forgot to care as I slipped in and out of consciousness on a potentially life-threatening car ride to my kidnapping.

Evans was not a serial killer. I blame my delusional paranoia on lack of sleep. We arrived at Chimfunshi around 5PM Tuesday evening. That, dear reader, is where I will leave you for now. Stay tuned...so much more to come.

At the corner of Liberty and Elizabeth: The Backstory

Part One: Rewind (in Four Parts).
[SIDEBAR: Grab a beverage. Or three. This entry is a novella. You’ve been warned.]


There are moments when life punches you in the gut with a realization, like a love-punch from a friend you haven’t seen since college. Your reason for living on this planet materializes and bites you, takes hold, the grip of its teeth changing all subsequent choices irrevocably.


And then (more commonly) there are realizations that take years to show their significance. While on a boat in Borneo in March of 2010, I didn’t get what was taking root until perhaps November of 2013…when a less subtle cartoon light bulb lit up directly above my head.


I returned from teaching in Java feeling like I had come home to be a real artist. I went back to the theater (thank you Adam Leskis) and performed in the best show I’ve ever been a part of. Best script, best cast, best black box stage, most affected audiences: it had everything. Including a certain piano player I fell in love with while also playing the saxophone (it was my character’s decision) with whom I shared a very cozy bench for two hours each night.


One evening early in the run of said play, our little show was slated to be reviewed by the Joseph Jefferson Awards Committee (the “Jeff” Awards are the Tony Awards of Chicago theater). However, this committee of experts walked out before intermission. Was it the show’s controversial topic (abortion), the racially diverse cast (I was one of two white girls and flattered to be among a group of uber-talented performers), or was the whole thing just too fringe for their tiny pea brains to wrap themselves around? I’ll never know. But it bothered me. The Holy Judges of what was considered “Art” in Chicago couldn’t even stick around for the end of a show that I could not have been more proud to call myself a part. Shame on them.


It took fifteen previous auditions with other theater companies putting on lesser shows to land this role as the saxophone-playing barmaid in the summer of 2011. By 2012 I was a cast member of Fucking A by Suzan-Lori Parks with Urban Theater Company and loving every minute. The collaborative air, Ms. Parks’ writing, the illicit note passing between the piano player and myself while we were supposed to be frozen in a dark corner of the stage equaled bliss. To say I was insulted when the Theatre Gods deemed our show unsuitable for keeping their flat, white rear ends in their seats is underplaying it. I was disgusted, annoyed, pissed off, but not all that surprised.


You see, dear reader, I’ve never been fully comfortable with the baggage that comes with being an actor, e.g.: type casting. It grosses me out. Subsequently, I’ve always done edgy theater with a socially relevant bent (I was in The Vagina Monologues twice and wrote a show called Choice about my days working at Planned Parenthood during the Bush administration, or as I like to call them: The Dark Ages). The marriage between art and activism is beautifully symbiotic in my mind and I wanted to keep reaching audiences that way. To make a living in theater, however, meant understanding and accepting that hot actors in mainstream shows sell more tickets. The juxtaposition between the established edges of commercial theater and my predilection for pushing the envelope clashed in a way that echoed in my brain and left me with a migraine. I suddenly no longer cared about the pithy predetermined standards of the Theatre Committee Elite. I had turned a corner.


I now know that I can credit an orangutan momma and her adorable infant for the road I currently find myself walking on.


Part Two: For the Love of Kipper.
[SIDEBAR: names have been changed in this section to protect the privacy of institutions and non-human primates.]


The stacks of plays in my office library are now rivaled by shelves filled with bindings that read: In the Shadow of Man, Bonobo Handshake, Walking With the Great Apes, Gorillas in the Mist, Next of Kin, Reflections of Eden, etc. I started reading ape related literature because I wanted to be happy again. I had left the theater and felt listless. My last blog entry four years ago cited the weekend in Borneo as one of the best of my life. I needed to remember why.


“Apes: go where the apes are” a non-schizophrenic voice kept murmuring in my ear. This search for the next fork in the road led me to volunteer at the local zoo and enroll in an anthropology course on primate behavior at a nearby college. Although being a guest relations volunteer wearing a green polo shirt and khakis was pretty sexy (if you wanted to look like you did in fifth grade marching band), I started to resent my time away from the ape house during my seven-hour shift passing out maps to the bathroom. The only choice I had was to boldly apply for a behavioral research intern position in the ape house having just completed my first ever anthropology course (while teaching full time) and not failing it. I was hired, probably on a dare. For the entirety of 2013, I got to know the non-human primates at the zoo while recording their every move two days a week on a hand held palm pilot, for free, all the while continuing to teach English the other three days of the week. It was humbling. And awesome.


Keep in mind; I transitioned rather swiftly from the Meisner technique into data entry and scientists in lab coats who studied the cognitive functioning of gorillas playing computer games. I was a former ARTIST (insert hand flourish and faulty British accent) in a world of humans who worked with animals because they perhaps lacked certain people skills. No more shoulder massages during rehearsal breaks, or gay men telling me I was simply gorgeous, or acting coaches yelling at me in scene study class to just slap/kiss him (my co-actor) if I felt called to during a particularly charged moment with this very good looking co-actor (god I miss that). Nope. Those days were gone.


This was the world of PhDs, research for publication, and nerds. The really really smart kind. Sure, I have an advanced degree (thank you Grandma Berne) but it is in the Humanities. An area of study I still cannot define. In this new pool, I not only did not know how to swim, there was no life guard waiting at the top of the ladder to hand me a towel when I emerged soaking wet and snotty with my suit wedged up my butt and ears full of chlorine. Spoiler alert: I am not a scientist.


But I do love apes. Oh, the love. It is deep and real. Apes are hilarious, beguiling, playful, inquisitive, empathic, surprising, mischievous, gloriously unique individuals with complex personalities. I fell for them hard. For one in particular: Kipper was a wild caught chimpanzee from Africa who used to get dressed up for patrons at the zoo and perform tea party skits with real teacups, pinky finger extended. He was a favorite with the public until he grew to be of a certain age, at which point he was transferred off-exhibit into a private, retirement enclosure with a few other older female chimps.


Since Kipper was used for entertainment before it was politically incorrect (and correctly understood as inappropriately cruel towards animals), he had a particularly unique personality. He required you to greet him when you walked in to work. If you did not say hello, he displayed at you and raised hell as punishment. Although a pane of thick glass separated all apes from humans, Kipper would sit right up against the clear divide and play mirror with his fingertips and yours, tracing patterns together for what seemed like hours. [ASIDE: “Playing” with the apes was frowned upon while working as an intern. Rightfully so, as it encouraged behavior that was unnatural for the apes since they should be unconcerned with us humans while we impartially observed them. However, Kipper was essentially raised by humans, and human contact was what he craved. It just wasn’t in my heart to ignore him].


Sometimes when feeling anxious, Kipper would present his rump for you (pressed against the glass) to pat as assurance that all was right with the world. He always gazed directly into your eyes/soul with understanding, and he understood everything. He loved to play chase and hide-and-seek. He demanded to see your shoes and approved of them, or not, depending on if you’d chosen wisely. Elderly as he was, he was still male. Thus, his anatomy still responded to those he found exciting in a manner according to his body’s instructions. This was unnerving, but he was an ape, and apes walk around naked. He was also wise, handsome, quirky, and fully present. Each day I knew I would see him, my heart swelled. The days he was moody or hiding out of view were just not as fun.


I’d made friends with other apes and even occasionally visited my gibbon boyfriend in the primate house during my lunches, but for me, Kipper was King. The day he passed away peacefully from heart failure in his mid-50s, I had to leave work early because I could not see a foot in front of me due to my constant eye leakage. At home I openly wept, in waves, for the entire evening. Thankfully my actual human boyfriend Jeffrey (the piano player from Fucking A) was there because I’d called him and he knew how much I loved this ape and how shattered I would be. He lay kindly and patiently with me on my bed as my heart broke and I demolished a box of Kleenex.


Kipper taught me that apes have so much to teach us arrogant humans, if only we can stay present enough to learn. My whole life I’ve had a hard time being “in the moment” (says the retired actor). But when I’m with apes, I am nowhere else. And wouldn’t you know: that place is unicorns and rainbows.


Part Three: The Light Bulb.
[SIDEBAR: Names and locations have been changed because it’s the polite thing to do and I could get sued.]


Kipper passed away nine months into my internship and try as I might to chin up and move on, being there without him sucked a little. That said, I was determined to stay at least a year. Working for free was trying, but I was learning so much and had finally decided that the lack of shoulder massages and gay men were not personal.


In November of 2013, a research scientist employed by the zoo came back from Africa. While in Chicago, he graciously gave the interns a power point presentation about his work with apes in the wild. It blew my mind. In my opinion, he clearly had the best job ever and I hung on to every word with avid focus. He then stopped on one particular shot of his research assistants who were all local men smiling in t-shirts and cargo pants amidst the lushest forest I’ve seen since Indonesia. These men were interested in learning English. Hence, they were being sent in pairs to the States for 4-6 months to do so. It was then that I stopped breathing.


Wait. What? Sent to America TO LEARN ENGLIGH!? Cue cartoon light bulb.


English is the international language of science and conservation. It is a necessary tool for all those working to save great apes in their native habitats to advocate on behalf of the preservation of these critically endangered creatures. I am not a scientist, but I am a teacher. Of English. And I am passionate about apes and their survival. I also love to travel. Holy mother of all things ohmygod my hands were sweating.


After that day came to an end, I walked into my boss’s office and told him I had a crazy idea and could he indulge me for a minute or forty? This is why I was here, I exclaimed (insert hand flourish and faulty British accent). This is why the second oldest intern who was really a teacher/former actor was moonlighting next to these intelligent, actually scientifically minded youngsters two days a week without pay. I was here because I was supposed to be at that meeting and hear that presentation and receive that punch in the gut/light bulb flash telling me to get my ass to Africa and teach that English. Because it was needed. And I could fill that need. He nodded. I was dismissed. Plans were underway.


Knowing that my tenure as an intern had come to its conclusion and that apes were also cared for in sanctuaries as well as zoos in the United States, I got another internship at a sanctuary in the southern part of the country where I spent my winter break. This internship caring for chimpanzees and orangutans would not have been possible without my time at the zoo and the gracious people who sent recommendations elsewhere on my behalf. It was also quite evident that I was more suited for sanctuary life. I couldn’t write a scientific research paper (I was aptly told I was more of a “memoirist”) and my heart expresses itself loudly through my face whether I like it or not. That month surrounded by palm trees and pant-hoots (a type of vocalization made by chimpanzees) nourished and propelled me. I was working on a grant to go to Africa to teach English and had found the reason why I had walked this zigzag path all my life. This was a time of major transition and multiple panic attacks.


Part Four: Here I Go Again on my Own, or how Whitesnake was right on.
[SIDEBAR: see previous sidebars.]


“The best laid plans of mice and men go often askew”. This is a rough translation of a line from the poem “To a Mouse” (1785) by Robert Burns, which was then adapted by John Steinbeck for the title of his seminal novel Of Mice and Men, which is shorter than this blog post. This is also a metaphorical teaching moment/snobby literary reference to explain why it took over a year to find the right sanctuary in Africa where I could do my work. Oh, the patience I never had and apparently need as an adult. I hate adulting.


I learned that flexibility and ignorance are not compatible in my search for a place that has hot water, electricity, occasional Wi-Fi, apes, and potential students of English. I knew almost nothing about this new frontier I was pursuing and was thwarted twice before the career fit came. It came by the grace of people who believed in me who listened when I gushed about ape conservation and teaching English and how I was put on this earth to combine the two. Bless those people and the therapy (thank you Lia) it has taken me to join them in their belief.


Exactly one year after my internship at the zoo ended and days before I was to leave for my second Christmas with the apes in Florida (I mean, down south…shit), I went to a party for the ape house to celebrate the exceptional work that they do. I also went to be with my ape loving people and catch up on ape gossip. Having switched gears, I was straddling a new divide with one foot in the known (teaching English in Chicago) and one foot in the very dark unknown (teaching English in the jungle). I was missing the artistic expression inherent in theater and watching my gifted boyfriend write music for shows day after day with a twinge of envy that I wasn’t proud of. On other days I was crying on my therapist’s couch and agonizing over why I’d listened to that schizophrenic voice that’d told me to follow the apes. Jump and the bridge will appear, eh? Jump emphatically if you’re also terrified of heights. Which I am. Well played Berne.


That night while drinking beers with my ape people, I was introduced to a saint dressed as a woman who did her PhD research at a sanctuary in Zambia that was actively looking for an ESL teacher for their employees. Cue the strobe light (bulb). That night she gave me the name of the airport I will be flying into a week from today, and the email address of the Chairman of the Board of said sanctuary who I would Skype with only weeks later. That night I went home and tried to put my heart back into my chest while it danced around with unicorns farting rainbows out the tips of my jazz hands. This goes to show: thou shalt network, network, wait tables so you know how to drink beer, and network.


It was decided that I would go to Chimfunshi Wildlife Orphanage in Zambia to pilot an ESL program on grounds for the local community as soon as possible. I did my research and applied for four grants. So far, I’ve received two. Still waiting on the other half. I am grateful as can be to the many people who made it possible to book those tickets and buy those classroom materials that are making my luggage weigh as much as I do. Indeed it does take a village. I could not have done this alone.

---

Which brings me to the present. When I taught in Indonesia five years ago, I did so with ten other experienced teachers also going to the tropical archipelago and the support of the US Dept. of State providing a net beneath my feet. Now, I’m older and wiser, it’s true. I’m also scared as shit because the government is not supporting me and I’m (to my knowledge) the only person who has ever been crazy enough to carve herself into this tiny niche. But as the brilliant Emily Dickinson once wrote, “If your nerve deny you- go above your nerve…” (Yes, I read Wild and saw the movie and have a crush on Cheryl Strayed’s work like I did on Leo DiCaprio in college what of it?).


I guess this is the upshot of having a family that resembles a stained glass window minus the soldering wire. I’m blessed to have friends and mentors that inspire and support me when faced with yet another realization that the stork who dropped me had a sick sense of humor. I’m kinda tough, even if I still look nice enough on the outside for suburban tourists to constantly stop me for directions on the street. Also, that listless feeling that only subsides when I’m in the presence of apes or teaching a fairly smooth lesson has prompted me to accept that I wouldn’t have been satisfied with anything else.


Jane Goodall, Beryl Markham (thank you Aunt Nan), and yes, Cheryl Strayed are pioneers, lionesses, and badass ladies just to name a few. They live lives people make movies about. When I stopped trying to get cast (as an extra) in movies about other people, and stepped into the thing I was born to do, the doors that periodically slammed in my face as an actress opened with ease, whispering, “It’s about time old lass. Welcome.”

The Book End

It seems only fitting to add the final note of this journey a full year after my last post abroad.

Traveling expands the brain, separates you from mundane worries, broadens the heart, pulls the wings out from beneath tense shoulder blades and creates space where the everyday tends to crowd. My last post was written from a tiny one bedroom cottage in the hills of WA (Western Australia). This entry is written from my couch, in cozy Andersonville, Chicago, North America. My cat is sprawled beneath the window captivated by local birds and a summer breeze. My knees are swollen from yesterday's run along the Lake, and I'm treating then with bags of frozen peas. Pretty fancy.

This past year flew by at lightning speed. Indonesia was the longest year of my life, the hardest, and the best. Since coming home, time has taunted me, flitting forward as I stand still...growing imperceptibly on the inside. At the moment I find myself perched in a major crossroads as I decide what kind of life I want to live. I was utterly elated to return last summer. Everything about Chicago, about this country, made me skip down sidewalks. I drank in my city like I never have. I wore sleeveless shirts and skirts with sneaky mirth, drank my fair share of cosmos, reconnected with beautiful people, and sat in the sun. I moved in with a friend from graduate school, took my cat back, and settled into a wonderful apartment only five blocks from where I'd left back in 2009: a younger, more naive woman.

Fall came (I thanked the Universe for seasonal changes). Teaching once again filled my weeks, leaving me domesticated on weekends, dating, catching up with friends, and re-adjusting. Winter brought initial excitement, and then depression as it dragged on and on. I was assuaged with trips to Oregon, North Carolina, and Boston to visit family and friends. Those were all lovely jaunts, but I've been home bound since January and am ready to claw through what I increasingly feel is a cage.

I chalk my encroaching panic up to two things: being a restless Aquarius, and not having been on stage for two years. I came back to Chicago to be an artist. I was offered the chance to stay in Malang a second year and declined because I felt fraudulent calling myself a full time instructor. And yet, I've chosen teaching as my vocation because I need meaning and purpose in my life. I dislike waiting tables. I've paid my dues in health care. The problem lies in the fact that although I live a relatively sparse existence, I still have champaign taste on a beer budget. And let me tell you: part time teaching ain't lucrative.

Thus, my task for the summer of 2011 is to land a stage role that pays actual money. I've been auditioning, and it's been a luxury. But there are times where I feel like I should have been doing this eleven months ago (where did time go?). Meanwhile, I think about where I've been and when I was most happy. Survey says: 1) with the orangutans in Borneo 2) the last time I updated this blog, on that farm in WA. I look back at those photos and see a face full of bliss. Real joy living behind my eyes, shining through my pores, negating the need or want for makeup. I hardly post pictures now because the woman captured in those shots is brooding, conflicted, and a little sad. What a downer!

I was listening to NPR the other day. Tom Hanks was being interviewed. I have loved that man ever since his two year stint on "Bosom Buddies" so of course I was attentive. The host asked him what he would be doing as a career if he wasn't a world famous movie star. He responded that he would probably be a tour guide of some sort because he's an innate story teller. He then recalled to us listeners how he remembered touring an old Maxwell House plant as a child, and the grandfatherly guide explaining to his group how the smell of the beans would captivate him when HE was a child. Tom explained that as that old man spoke those words aloud, he swore HE could smell that very brew too, in the same way this tour guide had done years before. No longer a coffee drinker myself, I still appreciate the smell (I have been known to inhale my roommate's coffee beans on occasion) and even more so appreciated the nostalgia inherent in this story.

The host then asked Mr. Hanks why telling stories is so important to him. He responded that, for him, stories have the power to transport people in a way that is a direct counter to cynicism. And cynicism is a killer.

I could not agree more.

Moving forward, I've decided to follow my bliss. I have no idea how that will unfold. I do know that teaching one class at each of my Universities is what fits me mentally, but not financially. I know that I have to learn how to manage money for the first time in my life. And although I've known some magical Fairy Godmothers, I'm not one for Sugar Daddies.

I've learned that travel is a non-negotiable part of who I am and want to be. So...I have the somewhat daunting task of figuring "it" out for as long as this summer stretches.

Wish me luck fellow travelers. May we find each other on the flip side.

Love,
Courtney Elizabeth

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.

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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.

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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.