I placed my bag in the overhead compartment and squeezed into my window seat separating my legs a little so that my knees could wedge in flush against the seat in front of me. At only 5’9 (well, 5’8 and a half), I can’t help but wonder how taller travelers find a way to take their seat; maybe they just scoot in backwards with their legs pressed to their chest and spend the entire flight with their knees folded tight up into their chin?  I doubt the seat belt would fit around them in that position, but I believe the indiscretion would be overlooked by the airline for the sake of retaining the ticket price.  I can’t imagine they face that concern very often since I was easily the tallest person there and, considering that only Indonesian was being spoken over the intercom and all around me, they weren’t the tourist hotspot that Bali has become.

I sat oblivious to what I imagine were the instructions for takeoff being dutifully demonstrated by the all male staff in the narrow isle between rows of seats, and put in my headphones. I normally wouldn’t listen to my music until the appropriate ‘cruising altitude’, but:

1.  I never believed my iPhone could really do any damage especially on ‘airplane mode’ where it has lived for the entirety of my trip.

2. my much more respectful and rule following boyfriend was not there to peer-pressure me into compliance.

and 3. I figured the staff seems quite content to leave me quietly wedged in my corner throughout the flight rather than struggle through a challenging conversation forged with their 3 words of English mixed with my skillful grasp of how to say ‘good morning’ in Indonesian.

It seemed my logic was sound as they passed by smiling politely a number of times before we took off to the soundtrack of Snow Patrol’s ‘Chasing Cars’.

The captain intermittently spoke to travelers in brief friendly-sounding monologs always preceded with a ‘bing’ that was always associated with the seatbelt light going on or off. One time I did recognize, “for English question ask staff” spoken in broken English which I translated into meaning if I had a question please don’t ask him, but rather torture the other non-English speaking employees.

Unlike a lot of other arrogant American travelers (noting that I do consider myself both American and arrogant), I don’t have the expectation that anywhere I travel should have people that speak my language. I recognize that I should honor the culture for which I am visiting by learning their language, or suffer with the consequences of my laziness. As I speak no other languages, besides feeling sadly uneducated, I am obviously deserving of many of these communication breakdown penalties.  Yet to-date I have had few actual situations where my lack of linguistics was more than an embarrassment and mild inconvenience. I learn to pick up simple clues when signage is unrecognizable to my specific eye.  People dragging luggage into the airport, must be departures…Long line with annoyed looking people, must be security…Gates can sometimes be more of a challenge, but usually they are simply numbered and most non-English speaking airports are small enough to wander around until I feel reasonably sure it’s the right place. And, truthfully, there is usually some english signage and it seems you can always find a staff member or traveler who is English-speaking and eager to help.

My visit to Harapan Jaya Village, Bogor had been a challenge to my usual charades game, but as the flight back to Denpasar, Bali was stretching to an end, I knew I would be greeted with a plethora of English fluent locals smiling and calling out, “excuse me miss, taxi?” 

Hearing the familiar ‘bing’ of the seatbelt light and feeling my ears pop as we started our decent I eagerly watched out the window as the far off water changed from that blue/grey textureless painting of afar to a deep, rich, awake, and churning element that promised me the familiar rhythm of it’s gently sloping waves outside my room in Candi Dasa. As wonderful as it was to visit Java, Bali held a quiet, peaceful, wonderland for me and I was glad to be back. 

We dipped so low it seemed like the great belly of the plane was nearly touching. I watched the water dance on the flaps of the wing in sporadic motion. They were flattened thin like the drops on a car windshield clinging together and swaying in whatever direction the wind forces them as the car rolls through the dryer section of the carwash. It looked gray and it was raining as the blue water below me disappeared into the asphalt runway streaking by.  I waited for the shuffling and clunking beneath my feet and the hydraulic zip of the landing gear, and I watched the wing, like I always do at landing, for the moment the flaps raise up almost vertical and the rush of the wind around them is a roar slowing us to a slow roll. But there was nothing…nothing but that prickling you get in the back of your neck when you are remaining calm even though you know something isn’t quite right.  We were too low, the runway was flying by too quickly, we should have already touched down…they didn’t seem like thoughts so much as simple facts, an inventory of physics and experience.

Suddenly the flaps of the wings spoke to me. Instead of saluting the sky and bringing us to a halt, they pressed down as far as they could reach as though they were trying to touch the ground themselves. We shot up. It wasn’t like the gentle up of a smooth take-off, but up like you see in the air show when the jets b-line like a rocket into the sky. It was too sharp, I thought, we were too low…the tail will hit.

Our heads were thrown flat back against our seats and then, veering to the right, my face pressed hard against the window before my hand had a chance to brace it. The overhead compartments flew open and the carefully packed bits of people’s lives fell unceremoniously splayed open in the isles and in strangers laps. The roaring I expected earlier came, but not as a welcome song to a new destination, but as a quaking shake of a plane being burdened beyond its capacity.  There were intermittent gasps of surprise from passengers with each sudden movement of the plane and I, amazingly calm, thought ‘I’m actually going to die right now.’

Looking back, I’m a little embarrassed at my narcissism, but at that moment, surrounded by the sounds of a plane coming apart around me, the fearful whimpers of my fellow statistics that might (at best) make a side-note on the local news, and the discomfort of my neighbors elbow pressing into me as he tried to prevent his whole weight from collapsing atop me, I thought… ‘what is the last thing I need to say?’

My iPhone was still squarely gripped in my left hand as my arms remained pinned at my sides by the force of our velocity and the sardine nature of our positioning. I opened it with the pointer finger on my right hand and pressed the small yellow notepad icon. I thought of my daughter, my family, my boyfriend, and my friends seemingly simultaneously trying to think of what to say, knowing I had only time for a few short words…(less than that with my one finger search and peck typing)

Then I just smiled (totally true). Not the kind of smile that you have when you are nervous or as a response to stress, but the kind that you don’t even realize is happening. It was the mysterious kind of smile that you see carved into statues or painted expressions that appear so serene but have no explanation. The smile that I imagine comes only with a great sense of peace.

I hovered with my finger poised to type my last words and I smiled…I smiled and thought, ‘It’s a good day to die.’

Now don’t get me wrong, I LOVE MY LIFE. It’s not like I’m one of those dramatic blaze of glory types. Old age sounds pretty good to me (except for the whole dementia and incontinence part). I have a lot left to do, and I truly do love my life. I guess that was kind of the epiphany of the moment. I thought of everyone dear in my life, all at once, all of the sudden, and I realized that they already know what I would want to say to them. They truly know the depth of love, and gratitude, and admiration, and appreciation I have for them and the overwhelming joy that they bring me. They already knew what I needed them to know if that were going to be my last moment in this life.  That was the most powerful and amazing thing to realize, and somehow it made it all alright.  I smiled.

I did write something as I prepared to explode into flames against the Bali shore. Maybe I did still have something to say…My deepest truth, at my moment of death…and it made me smile too.

The hard right waivered and then the wings became more balanced. We continued climbing until we broke through the stormy gray ceiling and sat upon the cotton-candy fairyland of billowy white clouds that I used to always dream I could jump into like giant cotton balls.  The sun was suddenly bright, the clouds were a shimmering white and it was like there had not been a raindrop in the sky. The plane was still and people put themselves upright in their seats. The flight attendants walked down the isle replacing items neatly into the overhead compartments smiling at each passenger as they walked by.

The captain came over the intercom with a long and seemingly detailed message for all the Indonesian-speaking passengers that I listened to intently trying to make out any words I might recognize. Then, surprisingly, he spoke in English saying two simple words, “Under control.” I almost laughed out loud, but restrained myself as it seemed disrespectful to the many passengers still rattled and teary.

I looked at the man next to me who had earlier been trying to practice his English and asked, “what did the captain say to you?” and I pointed up at the invisible speaker.

He looked at me with the calm expressionless features of an Asian businessman, and replied, “He will try again.”

This time I did laugh, and loudly.  He smiled probably more out of politeness than anything, because I’m quite sure he didn’t understand my entertainment. ‘Try, try again’ is what I used to always tell my daughter when she got frustrated that she couldn’t do something. I was glad the pilot had the same philosophy.

We landed after the scenic sky tour, without a hitch, to the loud applause that I thought was uncustomary for this culture. I stepped off the plane and looked around. There was no sign of the storm except the large puddles that remained across the runway and I thought, smiling again,

‘It’s a good day to live, too.’

 

(Postscript: I heard that there was a plane crash in San Fransisco around the same time that this occurrence happened to us. I’m so sorry to the families of those lost and send all my love and best wishes to all involved.)

With all my complaining about my hotel, I have to concede that their service is, well not exactly excellent, but they get an ‘A’ for effort. Their restaurant (where the wifi seems to work) is open 24-hrs and with only me and a chain-smoking Javanese man (who has to sit right next to me???) in the cafeteria sized dining room, they have 8 (seriously 8) staff members standing just a few feet away, ready to refill my 9/10ths full glass of water immediately following my first sip. Although appreciative, it made me feel a little awkward and I took my leave up the long driveway to the main street in search of a working ATM that wouldn’t reject my one and only card for the trip. There was a little store just to the right of the driveway and I gathered a ‘few’ things that were in plain sight giving up asking if they had a gift bag because, judging by the clerks perplexed expressions that just kept nodding at me, my charades was seriously lacking in it’s intended message.

Suddenly, the man behind me in line said something in a dramatic tone, shaking his head and gesturing at the pile of markers and paper I had amassed on the counter. “Lots of children,” I smiled brightly.  He almost looked angry and repeated his exasperated rant. “I don’t understand,” I said, but he took a heavy breath and turned his back to me and busied himself looking at something behind the counter. The clerk looked down, but I caught his gaze and he seemed almost disappointed that we made eye contact. “What is he saying?” I insisted. His forehead scrunched up like he was concentrating very hard, “crazy” was all he could come up with, but it made perfect sense in this situation and I felt a wave of shame and anxiety that left a pins and needles tingling in my hands and a short catch in my breath.

I knew when he said ‘crazy’ he meant me, and not the exasperated man in line behind me.  Admittedly I go a little nuts around gift giving, especially with the recipients being 2 little boys that I’ve been sponsoring through Childfund International (www.childfund.org) who I was finally going to meet in person. What started as grabbing some crayons for the almost 3-year-old twins, turned into ‘I should get something for all the children in the village so that they don’t feel left out’. “Crazy” in this case meant spending what would sum up to an average yearly wage for a local worker here in Java on hello kitty and angry birds notebooks.

I was embarrassed by the way I easily drew a fist full of colorful rupiah from my bag, dropping several large bills onto the floor on accident because my wad of money was discombobulated in random piles carelessly dropped into my bag where the bills found homes between some pages of my notebook and mixed in with random papers I carry with me all of the time.

It seemed like the small store was suddenly quite crowded and all eyes were not on me, but on the stacks of bills I counted onto the counter. Even the extra clerks just stared in my direction.

Instead of my usual euphoric high that I normally get from great acts of generosity, I felt sick to my stomach looking past the judging expressions of the locals. I was momentarily grateful for the two armed security guards that stood watch at the door of the small convenience store and the two security gates complete with armed watchmen that I passed at my hotel to get back to my room. I kept trying to remind myself that I wasn’t a horrible person for bringing gifts to the children, and I can’t feed and save everyone in the world…but my reassurances were little help to the picture burned into my mind of the weathered skin and cracked hands of a man I was sure worked longer and harder than I ever have, and his culturally uncharacteristic display of disgust with my ‘Paris Hilton’ spoiled American public display of affluence.

I woke to the high-pitched buzz of a mosquito so loud that it must have been bouncing off my eardrum. Sitting up with a start my nerves were slowly soothed by a deep resonating voice that reverberated against the windows and called me outside in bare feet to explore.  I quickly realized that the ‘morning prayer’ was not actually right outside my door, but rather projected through loud speakers by the two Muslim mosques that surround my gem of a hotel. Luckily, I enjoy waking early and was intrigued by this religion I know so very little about. A large group of well dressed women, all wrapped like fresh spring rolls, in delicate fabrics varying from simple blacks to ornate accent fabrics of red, gold, and orange were climbing into minivans literally parked in front of my door. Considering their proximity and the hour, just after 4:30 am, I felt completely comfortable observing them file in to the back seat with more grace than I have ever experienced on my best day. 

I used to wonder if Muslim men ever got to see their bride prior to marriage, and I would silently think how different those relationships must start considering most dating in America doesn’t go past the cursory glance unless there is some primal physical attraction. Their completely understated cocoon peeled away only in one slight slit above the bridge of their nose revealing captivating deep eyes, and I realized that eyes, when not distracted by any other features, are amazing! I couldn’t take my gaze away from each of them seeing both beauty and personality reflected so subtly with a glance, a blink, or a downward gaze.  With no disrespect intended, as I know the traditional dress is to remain conservative, I can imagine the same primal urges being present in these highly spiritual men in the same fashion as American boys respond to half-dressed, miniskirt, cami-wearing youth in the states. (side note: I did find out that Muslims do get to see each others faces prior to marrying. It usually occurs in the woman’s home with her parents present.)

Interestingly, at 4:30ish in the morning with a bustling group on their way to begin one of five prayer ceremonies of the day, I meet an English speaking man (At the time I was pretty sure he was the only one in Bogor) who was glad to educate me on some of their traditions. Unlike Bali, where the majority of the population is Hindu, 90% of Javanese are Muslim. It was interesting that he seemed very concerned that I know that Muslims are very kind and spiritual people, “they no bomb or hurt, pray a lot…5 times every day.”  What was even more interesting is that, since this morning, I have talked with 3 English-speaking individuals on separate occasions and they all felt it important to educate me on the gentle nature of their people and religion, “9-1-1 very no often.” Once I realized he wasn’t referring to our emergency services and rather the twin towers, I reassured him that not all Americans disliked Muslims, which seemed to be what he was asking. I also told him that there are many Muslims living within the US in which he responded wide eyed, “ohhhhh, very kind people.” I wasn’t sure if he meant the Americans or the Muslims, but I nodded and said, “yes” referring to both.

I am often humbled when I travel. I am intentionally ignorant of most politics and current events back home, my excuse being that I am a nurse in a high acuity trauma center and I see enough ‘real life’ in my daily work. Unfortunately, when I visit places with little tourism I feel like I am expected to speak for my entire country.  Their eyes search mine, they hang on my every word, and they think that I speak and believe the same as every other American in the country…and frankly, I am the last person anyone would want as a spokes person! I try to explain that the US is ‘very very big’, but with the language barrier I am pretty sure they think I’m just calling all Americans ‘fat’. So, my apologies to all you skinny-minnies, and please forgive my misrepresentation.

I should have taken cues from the fact that all the information and directions that, previously had politely been reiterated in my native tongue, now just took on a garbled sound reminiscent of the teacher speaking in the early Charlie Brown cartoons.  I stared blankly at the flight attendants nimble fingers as she buckled and unbuckled a sample seatbelt in the middle of the isle, half expecting to see subtitles scroll across her midsection.  Thinking nothing of it, as I am quite experienced with the buckling of a seatbelt and finding my nearest exit, I plugged in my headphones and gazed out the window watching the subtlety of various layers of green melt into one another, as if the shores of Bali were becoming dollops of oil paint against a far off canvas.  Only a short 2-hour flight away, I wondered how very different Java could actually be from the wonderland of quaint villages and smiling faces that had been my home for several weeks.

I had decided to extend my trip in the hopes of meeting the family of a Javanese child I sponsor here. Against the better judgment of the loving, albeit more cautious, people in my life I set off alone to the big city of Jakarta.

Becoming slightly aware of my lack of preparation, I decided to review the letters and correspondence I had exchanged with the family over the previous year…‘The family lives in a rural village outside of West Java.’ said one letter, followed by ‘the family lives in a semi-urban suburb of the large city of Bogor’…hmmm, I thought. I quickly dismissed the incongruity that I had never previously made note of and ventured on… ‘The father is a fisherman…’ Now wait a minute! I admit that my knowledge of geography ends at the exact moment when I no longer have internet access to Google maps, but in this case I was pretty sure that the home address of my sponsored family was a good 2-hours from any reasonable sized body of water.

No need to read on, I thought, obviously this is just a case of an under resourced, over worked nonprofit that had some inconsistent translation. (It is my nature to generally assume the very best, and why not? If things turn out differently than I expect, at least I didn’t waste all my time stressing about it in advance.) Besides, I am going to meet someone, and it’s always amazing to meet new people, especially from unfamiliar lands.

I drifted off in my luxurious accommodations, to be infinitely grateful waking just before landing with the seat next to me still empty and no blatant glares from neighboring passengers as I closed my gaping mouth and wiped the slippery wet drool off my right cheek and the small scratched window I had inadvertently been washing. I have never been a dainty, feminine sleeper with the cute closed mouth, silent breathing, and peaceful expression. As if being called, ‘sturdy’ all my life wasn’t enough, I get the deviated septum in a gonzo nose tribute that rattles audible breathing at best, and deep reverberating man-snoring more often. My momentary self-consciousness stowed for landing I practically burst with excitement as the wheels touched down.

An easy exit with only my carry-on slung over my shoulder, I bound through the halls and out into the sunlight with eyes dancing from one sign, with a hand scrawled name across it, to the next.  The delightful young lady at the front desk at my previous hotel had scheduled my pick up, so I was confident my chariot would be waiting. My eyes fixed on a single sign and I paused wondering if this was the one. It made me smile because it was written like a traditional Balinese name, listing the birth order first and then the name. True, it wasn’t exactly my name or even that close, but I am a ‘made’ [pronounced ma-day] and it could be a strange miss-heard translation of  ‘Tawnya’…maybe. In the absence of any other viable option I approached with an ‘All-American’ smile and outstretched hand. “Hello, I’m Tawnya. Are you going to M-One hotel?”

He nodded and then leaned to the right allowing his eyes to pass by me back to the door. I attempted again, “Do you speak English? M-One hotel?” Another nod, a smile, and a “yes” followed by a sideward lean so dramatic that it resembled more of a well practiced yoga bend, in an attempt to remove me from his immediate view.  Mildly confused I stepped away and scanned all the signs again. I walked to the far end, and back, and hovered a moment assessing my most appropriate next step. At just that moment 2 armed police stood to each side of me and showed me that my next appropriate step was to move forward into the large group of people waiting and sit down. Interesting they, and it seemed no one here, spoke English. They did muster the word “sit”, waited for me to comply, then they returned to their post at the airport exit door.

Waiting has never been my strong suit, and it didn’t seem likely that my driver would find me in a mass of unfamiliar faces, so being a girl of action I figured it was time to either call the hotel or hire a new driver. Either way, I needed a phone and someone who could speak English. Four random strangers later I found both. A quick phone call made by a kind trilingual stranger, about 200 yards of miscommunicated directions, and I was finally climbing aboard for what was supposed to be an hour and a half ride to my hotel. At the helm was my driver/musician Didi, listening to his broken English and newly released first album Fanilla…(all in Indonesian…pretty good stuff! 🙂

(visualize clock hands spinning rapidly around and around in infinite succession)

Five LONG hours (yes five) in LA worthy traffic and I stumbled into the most bizarre looking hotel I think I have ever seen. My first impression was that it looked like a shopping mall or department store of some kind. It was like a hotdog-on-a-stick themed color pallet climbing bright, bold, and bouncing into the grey rain filled clouds.

The rooms had deep red and green plastic awnings like there was an after-Christmas-sale at the dollar store, and yet my room was huge! True, it smelled of mildew and wet dog, but the sheer square footage would make any California real estate agents mouth water. Walking through the office like glass door there was a full downstairs living area complete with brown leather-like furniture and a TV (which surprised me considering my rooms have been devoid of such monotonous pleasures thus far). As you head up the stairs you find a very spacious bedroom, bathroom, closet, and another TV. In fact, I would wholeheartedly recommend this hotel to anyone in need of a party palace if the motel 6 is already booked!

In contrast, for me, I flop onto stained pillowcases, no top sheet, no wifi, and the smell of mangy mutt (without the benefit of fuzzy unconditional dog love), and say a quick prayer that I will fall to sleep quickly, everything will seem better in the morning, and I will not be bitten by an infestation of bedbugs…amen.