Piranha 3D

On Friday, I rode on the back of an ojek (taxi-motorcycle) for the first time--in a skirt and without a helmet. It was terrifying and fantastic, but it wasn't the craziest thing I did this week.

I also paid 50,000 rupiah to have a swarm of tiny fish nibble my feet.

It was a spa procedure called Dr. Fish and I'm told it's fairly common in Asia. The "pedicure" consists of fish eating all the dead skin off your feet, leaving you with baby bottom-soft soles. My friends Emily and Paige and I decided to take the plunge (pun intended) and try it.

Once we were sitting on the ledge above the tank of fish hungry for our flesh, all three of us had embarrassingly girlish freak-outs. But we stuck our legs in anyway. The sensation wasn't unpleasant; when I closed my eyes, it felt like a thousand gentle vibrations against my feet. Looking down at the little black, almost worm-like fish devouring my body, however, remained disturbing for the duration of the 30 minute pedi.

If I had done some research ahead of time, I would have learned that fish pedicures are banned in several states because of the health risks. I would have read a doctor's warning: "Risks include the possible spread of viral diseases, such as hepatitis and AIDS, as well as the fact that the water is not sterile and is full of bacteria." And I probably wouldn't have done it. But I did--and my callus (and infection)-free feet are grateful.

In other slightly freakish news, I spent one evening this week being an ex-convict aunt-of-the-groom at a Hick Wedding. It was an ETA named Talya's idea: put on a very un-PC, backwoods-themed wedding and reception, with all 44 of us participating as characters, from "homeless groom" right down to "awkwardly seductive ring-bearer." We threw ourselves into character with the same imagination and passion that will serve us so well in the classroom. There were exaggerated Southern accents, fake cigarettes, insults hurled from family member to meth-addicted family member and a brawl between the groom and the bride's ex-boyfriend.

Looking fierce in my prison-orange and prison-tats (thanks to Elena for the quality photo).

Leif, the belligerent ex, interrupts the ceremony.

And best of all, there was Justin Bieber performed by the ETAs' very own, brand new, chart-topping boy band.

Why does love always feel like a lavafield?

Forget eyeball paper-cuts. The real drama started this week--and by drama, I mean a second-degree sunburn and a day of feverish vomiting.
The score is Indonesia 2, Polly 0.

Last weekend, 28 of us rented a bus and drove two hours southeast of Bandung to a region called Garut. Our plan was to climb Mount Papandayan, an active volcano, and visit its hot springs. My conversation--or rather, my translator's conversation--with the hotel in Garut had made me a little nervous: "You're Americans? Oh, you don't want to stay at this hotel. Let me give you the number of a better one." But, looking for the ever-elusive Authentic Indonesian Experience, we opted for the cheapest option and it turned out to be the right choice. There were no bed bugs and even the hole-in-the-ground toilets were almost pleasant, because they were continuously flushed by natural hot springs.






Eric and Brandon demonstrate two different methods for using the infamous Indonesian Toilet.

Needless to say, it's a lot harder on girls than boys.








On Sunday morning, we set out at 8:00 am for the volcano with our somewhat shifty guide, Bobby. The hike began on a steep road lined with houses that people popped out of at every minute to yell "Halo!" or "Bule!" (white person). When we realized that it would take at least two hours just to reach the the mountain, we climbed into the back of a pickup truck and rode the rest of the way to the base. The volcano was breathtaking; figuratively (it was gorgeous) and literally (walking through the sulfurous smoke made us cough and choke so much that we made makeshift gas-masks out of our clothes).

The volcanic part of the hike begins.

Me suffocating next to one of the vents.

The last time Mount Papandayan exploded was in 2002--it flattened an entire parking lot (but no one died).

We hummed the Lord of the Rings soundtrack as we hiked because it looked so Mordor-esque.

What's a hike without a swim? We swam in this freezing lake at the top of the volcano; the water tasted sour and dry, like vinegar.

The volcano-side weekend was wonderful, and I brought back only one, unforgettable souvenir: a deep red sunburn that erupted into blisters across my shoulders--the kind of burn that gives you chills. Since then, it's evolved into something halfway between leprosy and molting snakeskin. (Don't worry--no photos will be shown.) My first lesson in living in an equatorial climate: sunscreen, sunscreen, sunscreen.

My other lessons have been in the classroom: a group of Indonesian Ibus (older women) teach us Bahasa Indonesia and pedagogy. Our days are divided into halves: three hours learning Indonesian and three hours learning how to teach English. The Indonesian classes are fun, light-hearted and interesting; we've learned a lullaby and how Indonesians dance (feet planted together, elbows at your sides, two thumbs up) and lots of basic how-to-introduce-yourself-and-ask-for-a-cup-of-coffee type phrases. The language's simplicity makes it charming. For instance, there is only one verb tense; words like "already," "right now" and "not yet" clarify whether something is past, present or future. Three of my favorite things we've learned:

1. The word for charcoal is abu. The word for gray is abu-abu.
2. The world bebek means both duck (the animal) and bleat (the sound a goat makes).
3. The way to say "I am single" (Saya belum menikah) does not translate literally to "I am not married"--it translates to "I am not yet married."

Alison, Jolie and Eric perform a skit while Ibu Vita observes.

Ibus Lily, Grace, Fifine and Vita lead us in an Indonesian pop song.

Classes on how to teach have been a little less interesting; there's been a lot of brainstorming and writing lists on poster paper and listening to everyone give their opinions on anything (including, but not limited to, whether it's of utmost importance that English teachers should raise their inflection at the end of their sentences or lower it). Things picked up speed today when we "solo-taught" for the first time: Each ETA planned a 10-minute lesson focused on communicative English--and all the lessons I observed were outstanding. Taking the lead in the classroom for the first time made me remember why teaching feels somehow both exhilarating and totally natural.

"Natural" is also probably a good word to describe my first bout of welcome-to-Indonesia sickness--it was bound to happen sooner or later. Earlier during orientation, two Indonesian doctors led medical question-and-answer sessions, and they made it clear that digestion problems are an inevitable part of moving to Indonesia. The ETAs have been succumbing one by one, some to just an afternoon of intestinal gurgling, some to several days of nausea and diarrhea. But I believe I have the dubious honor of being the first ETA to present with puking and a fever.

Flattened and miserable in my bed, I discovered just how great my new friends are. They brought me crackers, Sprite and flowers; they rubbed my back and wet a washcloth for my forehead; they sang my favorite song and told me funny stories about their days. Not to get too cheesy, but if we can all give each other as much support and love over the next eight months as I felt that day, Indonesia will present no challenge we can't face.

Oh, and my episode also gave Ibu Fifine an excuse for teaching me an incomparably cool Indonesian insult that made the whole thing worthwhile: Saya mau muntah lihat wajahmu. "When I see your face, I want to throw up."