Zachary

One of the greatest things about Bali is that, at any given moment, nature threatens to overtake civilization. Walking down one of the windy, narrow streets--hardly large enough for two motorbikes, let alone a car--you get the impression that you are teetering on the edge of a balance that will, at any moment, collapse. I love Bali because there is no such thing as human-centric design; if anything, it is the opposite. You want to cross the street? Better wait for the pack of mangy dogs. You wanna take a shower? Better check if there is any water available. You wanna walk to the bathroom barefoot? Fuhgettaboutit. The cockroaches and scorpions were here long before you were, and you can be damn sure they'll be here long after you're gone.

On my second night at Slukat, and the first night that I didn't black out from sheer jetlagged exhaustion, I woke suddenly to what sounded like a gigantic bird being strangled in the rafters. My ceiling is more than 20 feet high, mind you, and the sound reverberated off the bamboo thatching in such a way that it managed to come from multiple directions at once--there was no way this was a bird, or even a small mammal. In my half-sleep stupor, I began picturing eagle-tiger hybrids with gigantic scales and bulging red eyes... essentially, a hippogriff. I thought a hippogriff was living in my roof.

Needless to say, when the Dutch volunteers came back from their weekend in Padang Bai, I told them about my new roommate... much to their delight. "Is not a behrd," they told me, "is gaycko." Beyond my newfound concern that 70% of Slukat students would be learning English with a heavy Dutch accent on TOP of their Indonesian one, ("AHYSCUZ ME SEEER, WULD YOUS LIKE TO GA TO DE BETCH??"), I was tickled to hear about my new friend. Geckos are so exotic. They have awesome, knobby toes, and are speckled with colorful spots, like they are always on their way to a tiny lizard disco. Plus, geckos eat the spiders... which in case you didn't guess, are the size of dinner plates. I was definitely pro-gecko.

That was until I found out that they poop from above. My roommate, Milla, has a nice canopy bed--but me, I'm completely exposed to the elements, right in the line of fire. As much as I appreciate our gecko, who I have since named Zachary, I do not appreciate having little treats parachuted down in the middle of the night. It's bad enough that on an average day, my room is swimming in fire-ants, buzzing with flies and wasps, and perpetually coated in a thin layer of goo that you know--you just know--is evidence of much nastier critters lurking just out of sight. The first night I felt things crawling and falling all over me, I shot out of bed, desperate for a solution... but soon realized that there isn't one. I can erase a line of ants with a wet towel, letting them bite me, but they will only be back 2 minutes later. One of the Dutch volunteers, a computer nerd, gave me some high-tech bug zapper that emits some weird frequency when plugged into the wall... an expensive gadget that actually had a negative success rate, seeing as the existing ants appeared to have called all their friends and relatives over to have a look at what happens when human beings spend money on silly toys. Since this failed experiment, my nighttime ritual has been boiled down to washing my face and feet (if the water happens to be on), slathering my body in herbal bug spray, and saying a little prayer that I wake up with all ten fingers and toes. (So far, so good.)

Living and sleeping here is an adventure. Close your eyes, and you can hear a thousand sounds... the nighttime cicadas; the sunrise roosters; the whir of broken fans; the buzz of motorbikes; the bark of stray dogs; the bad karaoke down the street (in the immortal words of Milla: "I'll say one thing about Indonesians...as shy as they are, when it comes to karaoke, they just fucking GO FOR IT"); the hush-hush of the tall grass and banana leaves. Take a deep breath, and there is the spice of Sambal mixed with warm fruit, incense, and the faintly-sweet, thick smoke of the brick makers baking clay during the wee hours, all cloaked in perpetual dampness. This place is an orgy for the senses... it's a bit overwhelming, if you ask me. Then again, I don't remember what 'clean' smells like, and I've all but lost my taste for most things 'sterile.' The clean laundry smells acidic, and the dish soap feels toxic... but then again, it might just be. When it comes to most purchases, the Balinese are a little loose on the whole "is-it-gonna-kill-me?" thing.

Might as well face it: it's a Zachary world, and we're just living in it. It's a good day when you don't feel a giant winged insect thwack into your forehead, or open the fridge to find tiny, freezing lizards scampering in the bread (both of which happened today, by the way.) There is so much more to say, so much more to describe--my first day in Ubud, the supermarket at Gianyar, my introductions to traditional Balinese dance AND traditional Balinese yoga--but seeing as this is the very first time I have managed to stay awake past 10:00, I'm not going to push my luck. You can guarantee that at some point during the night, I will be woken up by Zachary's incessant "NGEEEEK--CAW. NGEEEK-CAW," the tickle of ants crawling across my face, or a confused rooster heralding the 2 o'clock hour. There are chickens, ducks, and pregnant cats everywhere. My friend recently caught a rat eating her underwear. On an average pedestrian street in Keramas, the ratio of 'crazy, jungle-like weeds' to 'street' is about 6:1. Here, nature makes room for you--not the other way around. It's surprisingly comforting. I have a feeling that, by the end of this trip, I'm going to find a lot of peace in it... if I don't get eaten in my sleep first.

Life on Mars

Remember that meal I talked about yesterday, the one with the Jersey Canadians? My pipe dreams of a cold Bitang and a plate of nasi goreng? Yeah. Never happened. Around 7:30 last night, after walking along a stretch of abandoned beach, we realized that not only do 2 restaurants exist in the general vicinity, but they all close at sundown. After bidding my new friends a good night, I was left to scour the local equivalent of a quickie mart (ramen, gum, mysterious looking chocolate beverages)... and quickly decided to take my chances back at Slukat. It wasn't long before I was out prowling the grounds with my headlamp, deciding which of the prickly, neon fruits would be least likely to poison me... and even went so far as to tear open a football-shaped green one before realizing that no matter how desperate my hunger, I would rather go to bed with my stomach growling than end up like the guy at the end of Into the Wild.

And when the symphony of roosters roused me at dawn, I woke with a vengeance. Suddenly, I was lonely and starving and desperate for home. My hair and skin were sticky. There was no one to talk to. There was an infestation of fire ants underneath my desk, and I was eating yet another Clif bar in place of a real meal. It's almost as though the honeymoon and anger phases of being abroad had been switched; I lay on my bed, sweaty and lonely, wondering why I'd ever decided to come so far from home. I understand now why everyone leaves Slukat on the weekends--it's beautiful, but its isolation is crazymaking.

Then, just as it always does, my discomfort lifted as quickly as it had settled. Two of the young students arrived at my door with buttery, grilled corn, fresh from the garden--and as we sat eating it, making pleasantly broken conversation about (what else) the Twilight franchise, two fanny-packed men walked down the driveway: Kelly and Sam. Kelly, it turns out, was the very first volunteer at Slukat and lived here for more than 5 years. After a quick conversation that revealed my recent lack of sustenance (not to mention social contact), the three of us took off for the beach.

I thought I had died and gone to heaven. A breeze blew off the water, I had a plate of fried noodles and a cold beer, and I had serendipitously stumbled upon the most knowledgeable tour guide this side of Ubud. Within minutes, Kelly began to talk about Bali--which, according to his opinion, is the "furthest you can get from American culture."

"You can't get to Mars," he said, "but this is the next best thing."

He briefed me on the simpler differences. For example, while some Americans expect to encounter anything from a rabid dog to an overalled, shotgun-bearing hillbilly each time they cut through private property, the Balinese have no problem with tresspassing. In fact, it's expected. On our way back to Slukat, we crossed through a rice field and made conversation with a woman laying brick from a Jenga-like pile of stones on her head. This image isn't an unusual one-- in fact, women have traditionally done most manual labor on the island. When the Hindus were herded to Bali, the men were expected to stay home and keep guard; as it were, the women were left to the fields.

He told me about the drug policy--which is not so much a policy as an ultimatum. For even the smallest amount of marijuana, one is imprisoned for an average of 12 years. (That sound you just heard is a collective shudder from every Santa Barbara high schooler, and most of SBCC as well.) The punishment for possession of hard drugs is, without exception, death by firing squad. The only loophole in this harsh and unforgiving policy is that of hallucinogenic mushrooms--which, according to Kelly, are served up legally on the majority of Kuta and Legian dinner menus.

In other news, while on Bali, one should never pay or greet with the left hand-- toilet paper is allegedly a Western phenomenon, meaning that--in its place--the left hand is employed to do the dirty business. While on a morning walk on the skinny road to Keramas, one may encounter people bathing and, erm, defecating in the canal water... often at the same time. It is not considered strange to do so.

My mind was blown. Kelly, Sam, and I walked along the glittering black sand for over two hours, sometimes stopping to take a picture or to watch groups of stone-gatherers collecting the little black rocks used to make pathways. When I asked what I should see in my spare time, Kelly advised me to experience the four main pillars of Bali: the 'real' Bali, Keramas and surrounding villages (where I bought my mango this afternoon); Kuta, Legian, and Seminyak, land of drunk Australians and luxury resorts (where the average age gets higher as you move up the coast); the mountains of the north; and Ubud, the arts colony where--from everything I've heard and read--all my wildest dreams are sure to come true. Divide those 4 goals by 5 weeks... well, I think it's certainly do-able. And I am forever indebted to Kelly for reinvigorating my faith in the natural ups and downs of travel, and in my ability to navigate it with confidence and reverence.

"I almost feel bad for you," he told me, as we sat looking over the ocean. "You've already discovered the best place on planet earth. The culture couldn't be more different than what you're used to, but the people are relaxed about it. They are accepting. No matter where you go after this, Venezuela or whatever, nothing will ever compare. You've found the most beautiful land on earth."

I have to say, as the sun sets on this 3rd day and my homesicky-jetlag is beginning to disappear (along with my stash of Clif bars), I'm beginning to think he's right. But what do I know? I'm just a dumb Canadian.

Welcome to Slukat!

With the 3:00 hour just rounding out my first 24 hours in Bali, I finally feel sane enough to sit down and reflect. A cool, lifesaving wind is blowing through the open door to my left--delivering the occasional butterfly or delicate blossom. Yes, I know I sound like a yoga magazine; and no, I don't feel like apologizing for it. The beauty of this place makes me realize why people read those magazines in the first place... only it isn't glossy, or exaggerated. It is raw, and that is the best part about it.

The final leg of traveling yesterday--though 1/3 of the first flight--managed to feel ten times longer, made worse by the fact that I had a socially awkward seat partner trying to chat me up the entire time. He didn't bring an ipod, either, so I had the distinct displeasure of feeling him watch Gilmore Girls over my shoulder for most of the flight. The landing into Bali was smooth and scenic--the runway extends out over the water, so it looked like we were descending straight into the sea. We taxied in past airport workers sitting in the shade, their arms draped lazily over one another, surrounded by bicycles scattered around the tarmac. I drifted off the plane and through the airport in a happy daze, all the way to baggage claim... where--reality check!-- 2 men, apparently fluent enough to read the "SLEEP-DEPRIVED AMERICAN" tattoo on my forehead, managed to rob me of $200,000 rupiah by carrying my bags through customs (without my consent) and then holding out their palms for cash. Disoriented, I reached for my cash belt and attempted to hand them the lowest bill I could find--but was told "the red one! the red one!" so many times that I folded like a pancake. I gave them each a red bill, and Scarlett O'Hara-ed all the way out of the airport... with God as my witness, I'll never be duped again! 

Outside the airport, 3 Slukat staff members met me with big grins and a sign with my name on it. We hopped in a van (and at this point, I was already drenched in sweat after being outside for 2 minutes) and proceeded to snail through the craziest traffic I have EVER seen--and that counts Anaheim on a promotional Disney weekend--all the way through Kuta and Legian. I was told that we were in the car for about 2 hours, but it felt like ten minutes; the road was packed with motorbikes weaving in and out of the cars--honking NOT out of rudeness, I am told, but as a way of saying "hey, I'm here!"--and the side of the road was scattered with technicolor snack stands, shops, hotels, and the occasional cow or chicken. It is common for people to walk up to your window while you are gridlocked in traffic and offer to sell you a bobble-headed cat. When the road finally cleared, we flew through the countryside and along the coast--endless palm trees and rice fields, speckled with snack stands and artisans, as far as the eye can see--and finally arrived at Slukat Learning Center, my new home, in Keramas. Before I even got out of the car, I could see girls practicing traditional Balinese dance in one of the outdoor classrooms... and when I got out, they all greeted me with big smiles. My tour of the property was a big blur of colors and smells--every room has seemingly limitless, intricately carved ceilings and a beautiful porch. My room is gorgeous--airy, big--but not cushy, and I love it that way. Everything is coated with a thin layer of grime, there are lizards crawling in the spaces between the brick walls, and the bathroom--oh, the bathroom--consists of a rock floor (as in, loose rocks), a semi-functional toilet, and a shower-head. There are also a lot of ferns. And did I mention? You can get wi-fi in the bathroom, but there is no ceiling. Or hot water. (Priorities).

After showing me my room, the girls plucked fresh orange coconuts and showed me to the traditional kitchen--where 2 toothless men, the gardener and the maintenance man, squatted and wove palm leaves together. We hacked the coconuts open and drank the strange, spicy--almost bubbly--juice, which was unlike anything I've ever had before. There are also papayas, mangos, jackfruit, and starfruit growing right outside my window.

After a man on a motorbike delivered a delicious dinner of spicy (read: SPICY, as in touch-your-eyes-and-lose-an-eyeball spicy) tofu, steamed vegetables, and rice, I took a freezing shower and stumbled into bed at the ripe old hour of 7:30. That put me bright-eyed and bushy tailed at--oh, 4:30 in the morning--which was just in time to watch the brick makers arriving to work next door, and to spend some quality time with Slukat's resident starving pet, a cat named Maya. After doing yoga and drinking the most disgustingly satisfying cup of Nescafé instant coffee, I wandered down to the beach--passing at least a dozen locals who yelled "hello, madam!" at me, soliciting a range of schizophrenic responses on my part, everything from a half-thumbs-up to a wave to a drugged-looking smile. In all cases, the locals proceeded to crack up and chatter as I walked away... and I don't speak Bahasa, but if I could take a guess, I reckon the rough translation would be "Look at that silly white girl. Didn't her parents teach her how to wave? 50,000 rupiah says she falls in the mangroves and gets eaten by a chicken."

The ocean is rough and wild, white-capped and loud, and the sand is jet black. I watched an old couple carry bags of rice on their heads as they made their way up the beach, passing just long enough for one of my (now signature) cracked-smiles, before hopping on their motorbike and buzzing up the road. It's hard to say what it is, but there's just something about them--the Balinese--that makes me instantly calm. They give off an air of kindness and ease. I have a lot to learn from them.

Even with their constant respect and graceful acceptance of my awkwardness, I found myself feeling lonely among the Balinese, and craving a fluent conversation... and, oddly, for the company of other Americans. That's right, I said it. No matter how many fat Texans have I've recently served fettuccine to, and no matter how many times I've wanted to yank the skateboard right out from underneath every Adidas-clad Santa Barbara teenager, I missed Americans. I think it came from shyness more than anything else; I wanted to be in the company of people who were louder and more obnoxious than I am, and Americans tend to fit the bill quite nicely.

It didn't take long at all. (Disclaimer: if you're reading this, C & B, I don't think you are obnoxious. In fact, I think you are both sweet and freakishly good-looking and deserve to have your very own television show.) Around noon, two "Canadians" came rolling in. Thinking they were actually Canadian, I began to scrounge my brain for Canadian talking-points--which, thankfully, I didn't have to use, because the conversation would have gone something like,"do you like maple syrup with your hockey? Margaret Atwood."--but within minutes of being alone, they told me the truth. They're from New Jersey. They've been using the Canadian alias as a safety precaution.

Immediately, I felt my stomach drop. Should I have done the same thing? Even though Bali is Hindu and incredibly peaceful, am I making a mistake by telling people that I am from the United States?

Something to think about. The news in Jakarta is bookmarked as my homepage, and I am keeping a low profile. For now, I'm going to join the Jersey Canadians for a meal... where perhaps we can work on our "what abooot it?" over cold Bitangs and Balinese sunset. If I do need to adopt a new identity, though, it's going to have to come later... because for now, my brain is so overloaded with fresh sights and smells and colors and life that I can hardly keep from bursting at the seams.

Approaching the 17th Hour

20 hours of air travel is enough to make anyone go a little bonkers. But is it really so much to ask that those who manage not only to look decent, but actually look good after traveling, keep it to themselves? Until now, I never imagined that I would be the type of person to long for compact mirrors or travel-sized facial toner, but after 30 minutes spent in the Taiwanese Duty-Free dabbing creams and serums over my evil-looking exhaustion, I would have sold my soul for a toothbrush.

The flight from LAX was long, but relatively painless. Other than a mysterious stain on my seat and a man in front who managed to put his seat back ONLY during the moments I was attempting to sleep on the tray table, I enjoyed myself--so much so that I hardly noticed how disgusting the meal was. Apparently, chicken swimming in gravy tastes the same no matter what country you're in.

The airport in Taipei is beautiful, and fits into the niche of what I always imagined Chinese hustle-and-bustle to look like--lots of sounds, smells, important looking people in suits, and (naturally), life-sized posters of Natalie Portman selling perfume. That, and Hello Kitty. EVERYWHERE. I've learned something important during my few hours here in Taiwan--if it can be sold, it can be sold in a Hello Kitty theme. Other than that, my favorite room in this airport is the prayer room--a large, white hall with a butterfly statue in the middle, made even better by the fact that something called "kung fu massage" is offered next door.

The crowds are beginning to congregate, which means it's time to board for Bali! It's already a completely different group than the Taiwan flight--not only aesthetically, but energetically. If I thought I was the only American traveling to Bali right now, I was sorely mistaken--I wasn't even the only one to take a dorky photo of the "Bali: Gate A6" display. At the moment, I can count at least a dozen people frantically attempting to get their iphones to play Netflix movies. Other than us Westerners, though, there are people who look and seem like they are going home--and they are different than anyone I have ever encountered before. I'm drinking it all in as much as my tired eyes will allow me to, excited to GET THERE and to see more.

Despite my lack of sleep, my body is energized in the distinct way that only travel brings--I am already in a completely new landscape, on my way to yet another new landscape. And to think, I will even get to leave the airport this time.

Virescent

The title of this blog comes from Lonely Planet, a franchise that--in an attempt to cater to perpetual cheapskates like myself--began publishing condensed versions of their famously intricate travel guides. Not willing to pay the exorbitant sum of $20.99 (yet happy, somehow, to pay $12.99 for a book that contains one-sixteenth of its more expensive counterpart), I left Chaucer's with said guide--a tiny portrait of Bali, a tiny Indonesian island that floats one gigantic Pacific Ocean, twenty hours, and approximately one universe away from the world that I currently live in.

Not wanting to waste any of its precious pages, the inside cover of the guide features a quick reference: how to say 'thank you' (silahkan) and 'one more' (satu lagi), the absurd currency exchange (one U.S. dollar=9,075 Indonesian rupiah), etc. Then, under essential facts, it lists three things: the Price of a Cold Beer (15,000 Rp), the Best Place to See the Sunrise (Sanur), and Another Word for Green (virescent).

Another word for green?

It's that last one that got me. Nestled in between the business hours and numbers to call in case of emergency, the author of my introduction to Bali found it essential to give me another word for green.

If that doesn't hint at something magic, I don't know what does.

So here I am, plugged into an outlet in the astonishingly grim "Marina Café," LAX's answer to departing Asians who, for whatever reason, find it necessary to eat one more velveeta-smothered chili dog before returning home to their countries. At the moment, three Korean girls are sitting in the booth next to mine, giggling over their Long Beach Combos (hot dog with pepperocini, in case you were wondering) as a little girl sprinkles Sweet n' Low packets all over the floor beneath their feet. The couple on my other side just did a "cheers" with their Haagen Dazs bars, and I felt one of many recent surges of distaste for Americans. Across the restaurant, a monk is playing with his iphone.

It's a strange and wonderful time to be traveling as a citizen of the United States; strange because of recent events, because of Anti-American rioting and the reputation that seems to cloak anyone who travels in the footsteps of a certain breed of tourist who would rather say "NO SPEAKO BALI-O" than pay $12.99 at the bookstore. I'll admit, given the current political unrest, I wasn't sure if it was wise for me to be here right now, traveling as a young American girl--alone--to a part of the world that may or may not see me for my country and myself.

Still, for that very reason, it is a wonderful time to be traveling. It is a wonderful time to flip upside down, experience a culture and a life that is radically different from anything I have ever known, and to be front and center to a heated political moment. I want to be safe, but I also mean to experience and to see it and to touch it with my hands. As my guide told me, even the most sacred of Balinese offerings are occasionally meant to be crushed underfoot... it's what happens when you walk.

So there you have it! Day one of my big adventure. The café is closing and people are lining up. There are more seats on this airplane than there were students in my graduating class. When I leave this country, it will be 1:15 a.m. on September 20--and when I touch down in Bali, it will be 2:00 p.m. September 21. What happens to Thursday? Only the clouds know. But as I head closer and closer to this pocket of green, I know I'm in for something good.

Ready or Not...

Here I come