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."

Babies, Barack and Sepak Bola

Our last days in Jakarta were spent enjoying some global universals: soccer--or sepak bola--and Barack Obama. One of the ETAs, a perpetually energetic guy named Brian, found an indoor soccer arena near our hotel and organized a mini-soccer tournament for all 44 of us. The idea so thrilled AMINEF that they offered to pay for our one-hour session. We played six 10-minute games--and sweat more than I think anyone has since the Wicked Witch of the West melted into a puddle. It was a blast.

Sweaty victors after the games.

For your viewing pleasure: a 20-second clip from one of the soccer games in which I am--surprise!--smacked in the face with the ball.





Indonesia's most famous American expat, President Obama, lived in Jakarta from ages six to ten. On Friday, six of us set out--with an Obama-Biden yard sign from my collection of campaign gear in hand--to find the elementary school he attended. The taxi drivers weren't exactly sure where the school was, but when I pointed to it on a Lonely Planet map, they said, "Oh, Obama, Obama!" In front of the school, there's a bronze statue of 10 year-old Barry holding a butterfly that says "The future belongs to those who believe in the power of their dreams." (Kind of depressingly, the statue actually had to be moved to the school from a public park due to controversy.)

We left Jakarta on Friday afternoon, which I think most of us were happy about. The city was too chaotic and dirty to feel like home and our Fulbright sessions were mostly bureaucratic or logistical. Part two of our training--three weeks of training in how to speak Bahasa Indonesia and how to teach English--is taking place in Bandung, a Javanese city in the mountains that is much cooler than Jakarta, in both senses of the word. The ride to Bandung was breathtaking; congested city streets gave way to rice paddies and green hills.

We arrived at the Sheraton Hotel in Bandung to glasses of cold lemonade, moist towels for freshening up and what I have to assume was some kind of welcome dance performed by three Indonesian women. This hotel's luxuriousness is a little unsettling; along with balconies and king-size beds, we each get two free pieces of laundry done every day and our own personal French-press coffee makers. And of course there's a gym, an elaborate breakfast buffet, pools and a hot tub, and the Jakarta Post delivered to our rooms every morning.

The hotel courtyard.

Supposedly, all this pampering can be traced back to a State Department rule that forbids us from staying in cheap hotels. It wasn't what any of us were expecting and frankly, seems a little contrary to the entire Fulbright concept. But I just keep reminding myself that in a few weeks, I'll be alone in a one-bedroom apartment in a tiny rural town with only mice and mosquitoes for company, so I'll enjoy the luxury while I can.

And how did we cope with the excessive wealth on our first night in Bandung? About fifteen of us gathered in my room, in the gorgeous batik robes that the hotel provided, to indulge in the pure, unadorned awesomeness that is Babies.

Kelsey, Brandon and I jump for joy.

Coming soon: our weekend on a volcano and first lessons on Bahasa Indonesia and pedagogy.

Pollyphemus, Indo's Own Cyclops

Have you ever given yourself a paper cut in the eyeball? Have you ever given yourself a paper cut in the eyeball during a Fulbright administrative session led by a US Department of State official?

I have.

The official, who was sitting on a stage in front of all 44 ETAs, announced that one person hadn't turned in an important form yet and they needed it immediately. Everyone turned around in their seats, looking for the delinquent ETA, who I suddenly realized was me. Trying to play off my forgetfulness nonchalantly and with an elegant wit, I picked up my form and waved it above my head. Except I didn't raise my arm quite high enough. The next second, I was clutching my eye, laughing and crying, while the rest of the room stared at me in confusion.

Eight hours later, the eyesight in my right eye is still blurry. And I'm starting to wonder if my Fulbright health care covers corneal transplants.


My first two days as an ETA-in-training have been (impaired vision aside) fantastic--interesting, challenging and unexpectedly fun. The flights from the US had the energy and warmth of a family reunion; at each airport, a new group of 20-somethings carrying backpacks and Lonely Planet guides to Indonesia appeared, saying "Hey, I think we're with you!", until by our last flight, almost all 44 of us were together. Along with sharing our near complete ignorance about what we were getting ourselves into, we shared our back stories. For instance:


Nicole, who isn't fazed by non-Western toilets (i.e. holes in the ground) because she lived in Ecuador for a year...


Jack, who took a semester off from school to work for the Obama Campaign during                                                                       the primaries...       





Leif, whose parents named him
and his three siblings--Jason,
Noah and Ariel--after famous
sea-faring figures (can you identify
them?).



AMINEF (the American Indonesian Exchange Foundation) transported us from the Jakarta airport to our lovely 4-star hotel, where the first week of orientation is taking place. I have my own suite, with a bedroom, kitchen and balcony, and an overwhelming view of smog-smothered Jakarta.

The last two days have been filled with information sessions led by various officials in the American and Indonesian governments, as well as former ETAs and ELFs (English Language Fellows). Some of it is dull, some of it is morbidly funny (Paul from the American Consulate said, "Hopefully you won't require any of our mortuary services. But you should know that we do offer them."), most of it is fascinating. I learned how to protect my passport (Ziploc bag), how to deal with dengue fever (sweat it out), which Indonesian dictionary is best (John Echols'), who to report overnight visitors to (the neighborhood warden), when to expect four weeks of vacation from school (December), what "realia" in the classroom is (concrete everyday objects that help teach a lesson)...

And then there's been the more hands-on learning. Venturing into Jakarta to find a computer adapter or even just a cafe is an adventure. My mud-encrusted legs can attest to Jakarta's filthiness--as Lonely Planet says, it's a city that's difficult to like. I was expecting people on the streets to be pushy, but they're unaggressively friendly and seem to get a kick out of calling out "Selamat sore" (good afternoon) in response our hellos. The taxi driver with tiny soccer balls hanging from his rear-view mirror laughed when I started singing Wavin' Flag, and then taught me how to say "I like soccer" ("Saya suka sepakbola"). The people are not difficult to like.

Arriving at the train station on a bicycle-taxi in the rain.

Jakarta's historic district, which is pretty in a peeling, unaffected way.

ETAs Abbey and JT dash across a deathly busy Jakarta road.

More adventures to come soon...

To Boldly Go

Indonesia--an archipelago of 17,508 islands, 242 million people and 719 languages--will be my home for the next nine months. Thanks to an English Teaching Assistantship (ETA) through the Fulbright Program, I will be teaching at a public high school in a small town on the island of Sulawesi from September 2010 to May 2011. Here are two maps to give you a point of reference:

The CIA World Factbook helpfully notes that Indonesia is "slightly less than three times the size of Texas." This makes North Sulawesi, my province, slightly more than half the size of Hawaii.

I'll live and teach in Amurang, a coastal town only 60 km from both the provincial capital and an active (!) volcano.

On August 20, at 9:05 am, I take off from Boston. It will take 48 and a half hours for me to weave my way across the globe to Jakarta. There will be three layovers--Chicago, Tokyo and Singapore--and, I'll bet, not much sleep. The next time I write, I'll be a jet-lagged teacher-in-training, 11 hours ahead of Eastern Standard Time.

I hope this blog will offer friends and family a peek into my Indonesian life. Getting internet access may be tricky sometimes, but I plan to post about twice a week. Please don't hesitate to comment on posts--and please, stay in touch.