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It’s the little things in life that cause so much pleasure, so much pain, and so much… well… absurdity.

You know, the little things like: an unexpected compliment, a beautiful sunset, the smell of coffee in the morning. And of course, when you’re accused of being a deceitful, con artist, gay hooker… and no matter what you say next, the circumstantial evidence is actually so damning that no amount of denial could ever persuade otherwise.

Bali is a magical place. Known for its pristine beaches, majestic mountainscapes, rich culture, and delicious food; it’s comparable to no other place on earth.  It also happens to be a throbbing den of sin.  Fascinating is the ease with which one can purchase prescription medication, plain old weed, or indeed someone’s time to satisfy any particular urge he (or she… although less likely) might be currently experiencing. It’s basically got something for everyone.  And believe me, everyone does go there.

And so, it is not surprising that many local people harbor certain suspicions about tourists’ intentions.  Suddenly that unexpected compliment transforms into thinly veiled innuendo; that beautiful sunset, a warning of impending thunderstorms; and that morning cup of coffee, a stale beer well after midnight. In Bali, even the most innocent of acts can be perceived as not just its polar opposite, but as a completely concocted exaggeration of any half-normal situation you could possibly imagine.  And on this crazy tropical island, it could actually be the truth.

*          *          *

During a perfectly wonderful week of experiencing Bali with my parents—my mother’s first time in Indonesia and my dad’s second—this island provided us with everything from scenes of gigantic waves crashing against rocky cliffs, to crater lakes 5,000 feet above sea level, and even more notably, a near perfect environment to catch up and joke around after months of communicating through only choppy Skype conversations. That week was one we will all three cherish and tell stories about for years to come.  

On our last night in the famous town of Ubud, after Mom had decided to turn in, Dad and I decided to continue our evening of entertainment, which had started with three straight hours of buy-one-get-one cocktails.  The streets had cleared significantly, and the only place we found still open was a Reggae bar with a surprisingly talented live band.  This sole option seemed like it would be a pretty good one.  And it was. The band was even taking requests, and since alcohol had been a consistent theme of the night, I requested a UB40 song, “Red Red Wine.” Fondly remembering the tune—as it had been played countless times in the background in our living room all throughout my childhood—the band totally nailed it. After it was over, though, Dad decided to call it a night and head back to the hotel. 

I, however, opted to stay out. The place still had plenty of life, and despite a very busy week, I felt perfectly awake.  I promptly moved to a more crowded table, and a conversation that had started with a couple Germans, transitioned to two Indonesian girls, and finally ended with a lively Australian duet who happened to also be staying in my hotel.  The Germans bragged about how much vacation time they had, the girls from Jakarta provided some very witty entertainment, and the Australians did not disappoint to just add some crazy slapstick to the evening.  All in all, it was a tremendously fun time.

The next day, my parents and I took our time getting ready to leave, we got massages, and then we headed back to Denpasar. Our respective flights awaited us, so we extended some heartfelt goodbyes. I made sure not to leave behind any of the souvenirs that I had bought on the island, and I flew back to Jakarta.

Pretty innocent, right?

Wrong.

Let’s fast-forward a bit now.

After I returned from Bali, I truly felt reinvigorated—almost as if a Renaissance had occurred.  The previous few months had admittedly been tough ones, and the excursion with Ma and Pa served to remind me that, in fact, I still had a life outside of work and outside of the evermore-confining walls of Jakarta.

Bali is a truly artistic place, and I felt myself becoming quite inspired while I was there.  And so, with new motivation to get my life back under control, I finally started writing again.  I gave myself a project that would take my mind off the office during my free time.  Recalling how—during my preparations to leave for Indonesia for the very first time—a few of my favorite professors at the University of Louisville had recommended that I write a book about my impending experience. Essentially, after six years, I finally decided to take that advice to heart.  I have now spent a great deal of time in this country, and I have amassed a wonderful collection of stories; I simply decided that it was time to start sharing them in a more comprehensive manner than through sparse, periodic blog posts.

Two weeks passed after having returned from the famed island, and I realized that the end of my yearlong contract was approaching, i.e. my vacation days were about to expire!  I thought to myself, hey, why not just take a couple days off and head to Bandung, the city where it all started, the first city I ever visited upon arriving in Indonesia. Perhaps a blast from the past would inspire me even further! It is much cooler in Bandung, the atmosphere is far more relaxed, conducive to writing, and there are some great bars that overlook the city.  Hesitating not even five minutes after having had the thought, I made plans to go.

Among the most defining characteristics of all my collective experiences in this country is the fact that I am often invited to join in on whatever event, party, or function that is occurring (or might eventually occur) by practically every man, woman, or child with whom I have a conversation lasting more than five minutes.  It is an immensely charming feature of this culture and is a huge part of the reason why I continue to come back. I rarely make plans when I travel here, and I almost always travel alone because I know that, as long as I can make decisions on a whim, I will have a truly unforgettable experience just being led down whatever random path some local person wants to take me!  Quite trusting, I know, but I have developed a pretty keen sense of people’s intentions.

Anyway…

On my second night in Bandung, I happen to meet a group of guys who were just chilling downstairs in my hotel after they had been using the gym there.  I was intending to grab something to eat in the hotel dining room, but instead, we struck up a conversation, which prevented me from accomplishing my goal.  Nevertheless, since I was hungry, and apparently so were they, the conversation naturally tended toward food. This, of course, naturally tended toward me getting invited to go on an Anthony-Bourdain-style city tour of local Sundanese cuisine.  After one of the guys excused himself to go compete in a nearby badminton tournament, the other two took it upon themselves to plan for me an impromptu sampling of favorite culinary hotspots! 

Needless to say, after three or four hours of restaurant and bar hopping, I was pretty satisfied. Additionally, I had made some truly great friends.  For the rest of the trip, by day, I continued to write, and by night, I just let those dudes plan all sorts of trouble for me, and I truly experienced Bandung like I was never able to do during my Fulbright orientation.

I arrived again in Jakarta on a Sunday afternoon, and the next day I got right back into the swing of things at work. The following Tuesday—now almost three weeks since my Balinese excursion had came to a close—I casually exchanged a couple texts with both Eleni and Pudel, the two girls from Jakarta that I had met at the Reggae bar in Ubud.  They mentioned to me that they were going to see a movie that evening, and after I finished up in the office, I decided I would tag along.

Okay.

I am now going to attempt something a little different from what I normally do on this blog.  Rather than continue to playfully describe, from my own perspective, the silly things that all too often happen to me here; instead, I’m going to place myself into someone else’s shoes. Starting again from the beginning—that unassuming last night in Ubud—I will now allow Eleni and Pudel to recount their version of the evening’s events:

“Yo girl, don’t look now, but get a load of the cute couple that just walked in at your three o’clock.”

“Ha! Yeah, they look like they’ll be having a good time tonight. The young guy’s probably making enough cash for the next month and half after this evening, eh?”

“I love how shameless these tourists are.  As soon as they get away from everyone they know back home, it’s just no more rules!”

“No kidding. And check this out now, he’s requesting a song. Red, Red, Wine??? Well, that settles it. How romantic!  Look how awkward they are!”

“Well, like you said, money talks!”

“Oh no… he’s being left alone now. How sad. Well, I’m sure the older guy will be eagerly awaiting him back in the hotel!”

“God, stop it! I don’t want to think about it anymore!”

“Hey, hey, hey! Look down! I think he’s coming this way!”

“False alarm. Pity for that table over there, though. I wonder if those Germans noticed his date earlier? Well, we’ll see how long this conversation lasts.”

“Hmmm, looks like they’re getting ready to leave. Yep, he’s succeeded in driving them away too.”

“Oh wonderful, now he’s coming over here. Well, brace yourself.”

“Should we bother to tell him anything about ourselves?”

“Nah, don’t even bother. He’s clearly buzzed. Let him just keep talking about himself.”

“Ohhhh, so… you worked in a pesantren?  You? You’re saying that you lived in an Islamic boarding school for a year? Ha… yeah, okay....”

“And now you’re helping to start a new university… that must be great for you…”

“International development, huh? How selfless… Let me guess, you’re just doing all this for the kids, are ya?”

“And you majored in math, wow, what an intelligent specimen you must be…"

“Good Lord, is this guy ever going to stop? I’m pretty sure he thinks we’re actually buying all this crap!”

“You know, he’d probably make a pretty good couple with that Australian guy. They appear to have something in common. Neither of them seem to be able to shut up.”

“Okay, well, I’d say it’s about time to head back.  Finally, we can be left alone to let loose and make fun of this guy without him just blabbering on about another outrageous self-absorbed story.”

“Yikes, are we really exchanging numbers? Well, it’s not like we really ever have to see him again. And anyway, he’s certainly gay, so whatever.”

“So, seriously. That guy!!! Haha! What the hell?” 

“Oh yeah, he was totally coming up with all that on the spot.”

“Hey, should we look up that university?”

“Oh yeah, big surprise, totally not searchable.  $10 says it doesn’t even exist.”

“Haha! It’s so funny the lengths to which people will go to try and get something from you!”

“I just can’t believe he thought we were buying all that crap!”

“Yo, yo, yo! Are you texting with that guy from Bali??”

“Yes! Haha! I was about to ask you the same question! I almost totally forgot about him!”

“Oh man, he said he just got back from Bandung. He clearly has some sort of operation going.”

“Do you think we should let him join us for this movie?”

“Eh, what could happen? Don’t pretend like you weren’t at least entertained the last time we hung out!”

“Very true.”

“Hey, how was Bandung?”

“Oh really…?”

“So you’re telling us that you met up a couple guys in the gym of a 4 star hotel and proceeded to let them take you out for the rest of the weekend… Wow.  This guy clearly leads a lifestyle beyond anything we could imagine.”

“Okay….. so he’s writing a NOVEL now??? Good Lord.  What could he possibly say next?”

“My God, I don’t know if I can handle hearing about the university crap again.”

“Alright, look dude, we just can’t hold back any longer.  Do you really think that we are buying ANY of this bullshit?”

*          *          *

And that was the most awkward moment of my life. 

It was exhausting trying to convince them that I truly had not been fabricating my entire life story. Even my business cards were not enough at that point.

Well, we’ll just have to see if I can ever succeed in digging myself out of that hole.

Finally a Lazy Sunday

Two nights ago I found myself perusing some of the writings I have posted over the years.  It is no mystery that the primary reason why I started writing in the first place was because I had embarked upon an adventure, and I wanted to share my experiences with those back home.  Novelty, surprise, exceptionalism, and disbelief remained the underlying themes that kept my writing interesting (at least for me!).  And, in fact, I found that although posting my anecdotes certainly allowed friends and family to vicariously relive some of my more outrageous exploits, the most important reason why I kept blogging was because it helped me to make sense of the wholly unfamiliar world in which I was living.  Taking the time to parse my experiences into manageable, bite-size stories kept me grounded when I knew that—no matter how much I wanted to—I probably would never be able to sufficiently communicate my thoughts to others without the lion’s share being totally lost in translation.

But what happens when that mystical, foreign land becomes just the place where you wake up every morning, where you work with your colleagues and socialize with friends?  Cumulatively, I’ve now lived in Indonesia for almost three years and resided in four different cities, which include two of the most conservative and two of the most cosmopolitan.  Granted, my innate American sensibilities occasionally prompt me to take a second glance at something to reassure myself that I am truly seeing what I’m seeing; however, on a daily basis, very little could occur here now that would surprise me.  No matter where you live on this planet, shocking incidents, humorous situations, and confusing circumstances will arise, but I can confidently say that, in Indonesia, I have reached I pretty high level of acculturation.  For certain obvious reasons, I could never be mistaken as a local, and being different has been a huge motivation for me to explore, learn, and experiment.  And not that my life is dull now, but it has absolutely become far more routine.

Honestly, that’s a pretty discomforting thought.  And it’s not at all because I fear consistency or “settling down” in my life, but because I have not taken nearly as much time recently to thoroughly appreciate the uniqueness of my current situation.  Whether short-term or long-term, I’ve been living in a very goal-driven atmosphere at work.  This start-up university environment is so encompassing that I rarely take my mind away from it.  That’s not to say that I’m constantly working, but it is definitely the most consuming part of my life.  And on top of this, work environments in Indonesia are not like work environments in the US.  You truly live your work here because your colleagues are your family.  If you’re Indonesian, it’s just a cultural phenomenon that you would treat your colleagues like brothers and sisters and your boss like a parent.  There really is no practice in this country—or even conception of—separating business and pleasure. The office environment more often than not resembles that of a party, and after work, everyone still hangs out with each other. For foreigners although the underlying reasons are different, you still become just as close to your ex-pat colleagues because, as foreigners, you simply relate to one another on a different level.  And perhaps more importantly, no matter who you are, it’s easy to get sucked into the general fun-loving, truly collegial Indonesian office environment!  

Writing has been a way for me to step back and attempt to view my experiences through the eyes of another.  I’m not even going to try to begin listing all the benefits of doing this. Ultimately, it’s something that I have not done enough of recently, and I hope I can get back into the habit.  So that being said, if you’re not already tired, feel free—once again—to step out with me into some Indonesian traffic…

A collection of thoughts from one seat among millions on the streets of Jakarta:

Density

I’ve seen estimates about the number of two- and four-wheeled vehicles on the streets of Jakarta at any given moment.  To tell you the truth, I don’t know how accurate they are, and frankly I don’t care.  Suffice it to say that Jakarta is growing rapidly: people are making more money, they are getting more jobs, and subsequently, they are buying more and more cars and motorcycles. Public transportation is terrible, and Indonesians aren’t savers – when you come across some money, it’s time to spend it on something cool, like to new car or bike! 

When you sit in Jakarta traffic, it’s like being a single, solitary ball inside one of those ball-cages at Chuck E. Cheese.  You’re piled literally on top of one another, and you only move when some inexplicable force has allowed all the other balls surrounding you to move all at once – and you’re very rarely moving in the same direction. Furthermore, just like when a kid jumps into the cage, and all the balls in his immediate vicinity scatter, the balls at the other end of the cage don’t budge… just because you see evidence that something is happening on the rode ahead does not guarantee that you’re going anywhere any time soon.

Air Quality

I just hope that my lungs and respiratory system are adapting to and embracing the carbon monoxide.

Traffic Control

During standard rush-hour times, almost every intersection in the city is occupied by a community volunteer who has forgone all other commitments to stand in the middle of the street and attempt to direct traffic.  This is serious business, and people take pride in this responsibility.  I often wonder how a particular individual claims and retains his rightful intersection; every single morning I ride by the same people at the same crossings.  Only occasionally do I see substitutes, and I feel particularly concerned when I do. What happened to blue-hat, bearded guy at Pancoran & Perdatam?? I always feel relieved the next day when he’s back.

However, one of the last intersections on my way to the office is manned by an 80-year old senior citizen in the morning and a child who’s not even as tall as my motorcycle in the afternoon.  This is the WORST intersection in the city.  The old guy doesn’t know what’s happening, and the 5-year old lacks considerable authority.  I never know if they are telling me to go or to stop, and neither does anyone else.  I have a pretty uneventful ride until I arrive at this intersection where suddenly people are always driving on the wrong side of the road, motorcycles are sideways in between cars, and my otherwise 15-minute commute turns into 30.  However, no one ever seems to question the legitimacy of either of these two local difference-makers.

Helmets

The thing about helmets is: they have to be strapped on. 

An accident minor enough to not knock off an unstrapped helmet will likely not result in your hitting your head.  Any accident that results in your hitting your head has almost certainly caused a sufficiently powerful enough jolt to send an unstrapped helmet flying. 

Please strap on your helmets.

2:00 a.m.

For most ordinary human beings, on occasion, midnight is a perfectly acceptable time to lie down for bed before entering the office the next day.  An addicting TV show, chatting with friends, or perhaps scrambling to make up for a day of procrastination – any of which is a perfectly reasonable excuse to push one’s waking hours to the 12:00 a.m. mark.  However, habitually, breaking this p.m./a.m. barrier makes for a dreary day-to-day existence.  With a consistent 6:00 a.m. wakeup call, time must eventually be set aside to compensate for lost sleep.

This is why still being conscious to see “1:00 a.m.” on a clock during a normal workweek is a stark indicator that something has not gone as planned. And furthermore, once the clock has struck 2:00 a.m., few additional signs are needed to suggest that a total breakdown has occurred. There are very few reasons why one should still be pacing around his or her apartment a mere four hours before he must arise and begin preparing for the next day.

It’s 2:00 a.m. here right now.  The ceiling light is on in my living room, all my valuables are hidden, and my new purple foldout couch is quite irregularly positioned in front of the doorway, purposefully serving to prevent any unwanted entry into my humble abode…

...Four hours earlier...

After a Skype call home, I walked back to my room through the underground shopping mall, which serves as a very useful and entertaining foundation to my apartment complex.  I took an elevator up to the 11^th floor, and upon arriving at my unit, groceries and laptop in hand, I attempted to unlock my front door. However, I experienced some difficulty in unlocking the lock. Attributing this inconvenience to having previously had two hands full of food and electronic equipment, I patiently placed my belongings onto the floor. I then made a second attempt to turn the key.

This time, however, I immediately recognized an urgent problem.  Despite having released 20+ pounds from my grip, thereby significantly improving my dexterity and coordination, I still could not open my door.  The key turned stubbornly about 45 degrees to the left and refused to rotate any further.  Any additional tinkering with the door would be futile; the lock was undoubtedly broken.  Entering my apartment would now be transformed from a mindless, routine task into a cross-cultural fiasco of confusion and frustration.

Refusing to give up, I carefully toyed with the lock and key for a good 15 minutes. After only 3 days of living at this place, I truly didn’t want to resort to a 10 p.m. call to my new landlord. The guy doesn’t live anywhere near by.  And even if I had wanted to make calling him my first attempt to resolve the problem, it would not have done any good; of course, I did eventually make the call, but to no real surprise, there was no answer.  In fact, after multiple attempts over the course of another 20 minutes, reaching the owner began to seem like a lost cause. 

This was a problem. See, getting most anything accomplished in this country – when that “anything” falls outside your individual realm of expertise – is a matter of having already formed a close and personal relationship with another individual who does have that expertise.  And the time required to cultivate that sort of relationship with someone seemed like it might be longer than the time between that instant and when I wanted to lie down for bed.   

Serving to further exacerbate the situation was the fact that in order to rent an apartment on a monthly basis in Indonesia, you are technically supposed to have already obtained an official visa, namely, one which doesn’t explicitly state that you are a TOURIST, and that you must exit the country within 30 days.  At the time, unfortunately, this was all I had.  And to boot, guess what, that was also locked in my room.

Begrudgingly, I took the elevator back down to the security desk and looked into the eyes of two Indonesian guards, with whom I’d not yet had the chance to meet, after only 3 days of staying at the apartment.  For all they knew, I had just walked up from the mall downstairs to visit a friend. 

Suffice it to say that the interaction was somewhat painful. 

“Soooo…. You live here?” Okay, which apartment do you own? …oh, you’re renting? I don’t have you on the list… so, you just moved in? hmmmm.  Why don’t you call your landlord.  Oh, he didn’t pick up?  You should try him again.  Still no answer? We’ll, just need to make a copy of your visa then.  Oh, no visa? Well, at least let us make a copy of your passport.  Huh, don’t have that either?”

...head of security enters...

“Okay, so you don’t have any official Indonesian I.D. You don’t have anyone who can vouch for the fact that you live here, and you can’t get a hold of your landlord?  If we open this door for you, I really, really…. REALY hope that you actually do live here.  And I really, really… REALLY hope that your passport is actually inside. Understand?”

So, after a pretty obvious threat from security, I was escorted upstairs by two guards and a very suspect looking “locksmith,” who appeared to be about 14 years old, wielding nothing more than a rusty hammer and a bent icepick.

Another noisy hour of banging at my door went by, and after a sufficiently large pile of sawdust, paint chips, and metal shavings had accumulated at my threshold, the door miraculously opened.  But unfortunately, it had not occurred to the staff to bring any replacement parts. This, of course, presented the obvious problem of not being able to again lock, or even close, my door.  But more immediately, it meant that – unless I wanted to leave my apartment completely unattended with a door flapping in the wind at 12:00 a.m. in an unfamiliar environment – I was going to have to entrust the apartment staff with the most important document I have, so that they could go make a copy, while I guarded all my possessions.   And their sense of urgency of making the copy of my passport was discomforting, so I had to let them do it, seeing as how they would not accept a copy that I had already made.

The copy of the passport literally took another hour, which seemed even longer…

And that takes me back to the beginning of the story.  I had to get some sleep after my passport was finally returned to me. So, I moved my couch in front of the door. That way, if anyone wanted to enter, at least they would wake me up with the commotion of having to push passed the couch. 

Miraculously, by 2:30 in the morning, one of the staff members had actually managed to find a replacement lock at a nearby market.  And to my relief, he seemed to install it with a bit more finesse and expertise than the manner in which he had removed the previous one. 

Yes, it turned out to be a dreary and exhausting next day at work, but at least now, I’ve made friends with the guards, they do know I live here, I have a permanent visa, and although I still can rarely ever get a hold of my landlord, no further problems have arisen with the facilities.

After plenty of experience living here, though, that’s clearly not something that I’m going to fool myself into getting used to. :-)

Secret Secret Beach

I've now been to four or five beaches since my arrival in Aceh. One of them is referred to by many as "Secret Beach." My journey to Secret Beach was the second trip that I made with my new friends here. It involved riding through torrential rain and high winds on a motorbike to the base of a small mountain, where we had to hike up and around -- in the same weather conditions as the ride over -- to get to the sea. Upon our arrival, we immediately had to seek shelter in the foliage because the winds coming from the ocean were so strong, that salt water was being relentlessly pelted onto our bodies and into our eyes. Nevertheless, despite these conditions, we still saw a few more adventurers huddled around one another, trying to stay as warm and dry as possible. Secret Beach was no doubt a worth while trip, and its virtual seclusion made it utterly enjoyable in spite of the elements.

But this past weekend, I made the journey to another beautiful coastal area that proved to be one of the most breath-taking places I'd ever been, and my group ran into absolutely no one else the entire day. "Secret Secret Beach," as it has been appropriately named, requires a much longer motorbike trip, and a far more grueling trek through a mountainous jungle before being able to set eyes on land's end. Unfortunately, most groups of Acehnese thrill-seekers are explicitly denied access to the nearly hidden path that leads to the coast. Cultural rules that don't apply to foreigners inhibit locals from enjoying their own natural environments. Any Indonesian group containing both males and females is held to a higher Islamic moral standard, per se, and in the eyes of society, there is too high a risk of "funny business" between guys and girls at a secluded beach. Most Indonesian women who've seen this beach have been part of a larger group comprising mainly Westerners. That's essentially the only way that they'd get past the ever-lurking moral police, who literally just hide out in bushes waiting to deny young people an opportunity to make out in the jungle. Even my most outdoorsy Indonesian female friends -- who've got this place and this culture figured out to a tee -- have until now always been stopped and informed that they could not proceed to Secret Secret Beach.

This trip, however, I made with my new group of ex-pat friends, five Americans and one Australian. Self, the Australian (whom I'd actually met before and hiked with about 2 and a half years ago on Java... but that's another story) brought with him a huge fish that he'd bought earlier that morning at a local market, as well as some other snacks. We made a fire, grilled on the beach, and enjoyed the sun.

I'll let the pictures tell the rest of the story!

Sorry for the first couple, by the way, my camera was having shutter problems, but I still wanted to include them.