The September Edition

“I’m sorry, I’ve left Cambodia to return to the United States.  I don’t think I’ll be back.”

I stared at the email, a bit stunned and unsure of what to do.  My entire trip had been somewhat of a whim.  It wasn’t something I spent years planning and saving, but I was shocked how quickly things had come together and I left with a good feeling that I had strong contacts in each country where I planned to volunteer.  While I was in Indonesia, I sent out a few emails to people I had connected with in Cambodia and Thailand, both a few weeks out, just to firm up plans before I arrived.  Nobody from Thailand responded.  My contact in Cambodia sent the above reply, without an offer to connect me with anyone else in her organization.  Just, sorry!  Gone!

Two full months that I thought I had planned – now, nothing.  Where would I go next?  Maybe I should just scrap Asia and move on to Africa, I seemed to have a better plan lined up there.  I sighed.  I’d give it one more try to see if I can find a project.

I sent a message to the friend of a friend who had first introduced me to the now defunct opportunity to see if she knew of anything else.  She checked in with another friend, who gave me an email of someone who founded an NGO there.  Why not?  I shot off an email with a quick introduction and offered my skillset in strategic planning, organizational management, administrative structures, and creative growth strategies.

The next morning, I woke up to a reply: “Your timing is perfect.  Let’s have a call.”

Sue Hanna is the founder of Flame, an NGO in Cambodia that works with slum-living kids to get them in school, and provide medical care, tutoring, sports opportunities, and other engaging activities.  Sue said that the night before, she had been working on a strategic plan and was getting incredible frustrated with the process.  She prayed, “God, I can’t do this.  I need some help!”  She shut her laptop and went to bed.  The next morning, she woke up to read my email, roughly, “Hi, I do strategic planning.  Need some help?”  (It was a bit longer and more professional, but that was essentially the gist.)  She shook her head and smiled.

With her on the call was her friend Joke van Opstal, who started her own NGO called Fountain of Hope.  FOH works in rural communities to mentor, educate, and support kids, work with community leaders for locally-driven development solutions, and provide training and structure for economic opportunities.  We decided I would split my time between the two organizations.  Later that day, another friend of a friend of a friend connected me with a group further south in Cambodia, so with a week or so to spare, my schedule was set.

I flew into Phnom Penh from Kuala Lumpur.  While at the airport, I tried to change my last bit of Malaysian Ringgit for Cambodian currency.  “We don’t have it!”  Interesting.  I would think an airport would have most of the currency for the neighborhood.  I bought lunch and an extra coffee instead.

I cleared customs and collected my baggage.  I scanned the crowd waiting in the exit area to see if I could recognize Sue from her Facebook picture.  It didn’t take long—she’s about six feet tall and towered over the crowd.  “Welcome to Cambodia!  Let’s get you a SIM card and some money.”    I explained that I tried to change money in Malaysia but they didn’t have any.  “Oh, Cambodian currency is only used as change.  We use U.S. dollars here.”  Oh!  Well, I already had that, so combined with my great ready-to-go international phone plan, I was set.  It was rather odd to go to an ATM and pull out dollars, but the familiarity was quite nice.

We dropped off my things at her house where she was graciously hosting me.  “Do you want to go see the activity center?  The kids are meeting today.”  I eagerly agreed and we hopped back in her truck to head out to the neighborhood gathering.

As we drove out, Sue pointed out slums tucked in beside open pipes, under bridges, and in abandoned lots, never secure from changes, new buildings, or general clearing out.  The shanties lack clean water and electricity.  There were no rules for anyone about anything.

We pulled up to the activity center where a group of about 30 kids were already gathered.  The younger kids were jumping and playing as the team finished setting up.

“Who leads these programs for you?”  The team up front seemed very young.

“Flame’s motto is ‘Identify, Grow, Launch’ – these are kids who have come up through our programs and are developing leadership skills.  They’re teens, and do an incredible job.”

The energy was palatable, the kind that fades with taxes and mortgages.  The youth started the program with songs that had the kids moving and dancing, singing and shouting.  They organized the kids into neat rows by age and started the stories, activities, and lessons.  The kids were attentive and engaged.  Just when the wriggling started up again, the program wrapped up and the kids lined up for snacks and some milk. They laughed as they tumbled out of the center.  You could tell they enjoyed being there.

“This is great for the younger kids, but we lose the teens.  We need a few more sports teams to keep them engaged and coming.”  Sue was always thinking of the ones left behind, who had fallen through the cracks.  Her attitude, and Flame’s credo, was to do whatever it takes to help these kids succeed.  If that meant bringing in acrobats or aircraft carriers, she would find a way to do it.

The leaders came over to greet Sue and jumped into the back of her flatbed truck for a ride home.  Most of the teens spoke English, but some were still shy to use it with a visitor.  We dropped off the crew and headed to a coffee shop for some dinner.

Cambodia has been a hub of NGOs since the Khmer Rouge wiped out 30% of the population between 1975-1979.   An entire generation was lost, and all the economic growth and human potential they would have generated.  Billions of dollars in foreign aid has poured into the country since then, and the staff to oversee it.  With it came Western tastes, as testified by the flourishing of coffee shops with menus of sandwiches and salads.  Many of them are an extension of an NGO, with the profits going to support mission-driven work or used as employment training.  But you could get a decent meal for $3-4, and the coffee wasn’t bad either.

About 3,500 NGOs are registered in Cambodia, second only to Rwanda.  It’s estimated that only half are still active.  It’s tough work, trying to change people and situations.  While most have good intentions, there are varying degrees of effectiveness in outcomes.  Some are more interested in fundraising.  Some get distracted by running the businesses intended to support the mission.  Some throw up their hands and close shop, frustrated and defeated.  To succeed, you have to keep your vision focused and remember why you’re there.  It’s not easy.

As we drove home, Sue pointed a power pole smack in the middle of the road.  “This is a brand-new road.  That’s a brand-new power pole.  Some things I’ll never get used to.”  That was her gift.  She couldn’t accept things that weren’t right.  They bothered her until she had to do something.  She saw kids who needed someone who believed in them, who would walk with them, who would persist, and continue, and refuse to quit, until something changed.  Kids who just needed hope.

The power pole will probably stay smack in the middle of the road, but she is investing in the lives of children who have been invisible, and that will make a difference for a generation to come.

 

We rolled into Kuala Lumpur around 4:00am.  I was exhausted.  I had taken the night bus from Singapore, and while it was comfortable, I couldn’t really sleep.  I stumbled out onto the quiet street, the city still dark and still.  I had chosen this particular bus route in part because it arrived close to my hotel.  I generally prefer to walk in a new city whenever possible, despite carrying about 50 pounds of luggage.  Haggling with taxis when I don’t have a good base point is never fun.

I pull out my phone and check google maps to see where I’m going.  I’m quite grateful for my T-Mobile plan that gives me data and texting in most countries around the world.  It would be cheaper to get a local SIM card, but it’s safer and more convenient to have a phone that just works the second you arrive.  And in many countries, nothing, including getting a local SIM card, is easy or convenient.  So I happily pay my US prices for US access.

I slowly made my way down the winding road for about 10 minutes to my hotel, just wanting to get some sleep.  The front desk guy greets me cheerily, and then takes ages to figure out what to do with me.  He decides he can let me in if he charges me for an extra night.  At this point, I don’t care.  He tells me he’s giving me an upgrade!  Lovely.  I wondered what kind of upgrades exist at a $20/night hotel.  He takes me to a windowless room downstairs.  It has two beds, so I guess that was the upgrade!  I promptly fell asleep.

When I woke up a few hours later, the owner caught me just before I left.  “I’m so sorry, my colleague put you in the wrong room.  Can I move you?  I know Americans like windows.  I had a special room set aside just for you.”  I laughed, and packed up my things.

Kuala Lumpur is a delightfully easy city to navigate.  Their metro system can get you just about anywhere fast and cheap.  I took a picture of the metro map for later reference, hopped on, and went gliding through the city.

My first stop was the national museum.  I enjoyed wandering through, learning about ancient people groups and modern customs. Early traders to the peninsula were Islamic.  The ruler converted and decreed Malaysians would henceforth be Muslim.

I toured through the downtown area, admiring the Moorish-influenced, British built government buildings and sections of town.  Visitors were reminded to behave properly, but nothing like the death sentence promised for drug dealers I saw in Singapore.

It was late and I had been walking all day.  My last stop on my self-guided tour was an old Anglican church, St. Mary’s Cathedral.  I could see the spire in the distance.  I was tired and my pace was definitely slowing.  I arrived and noticed there was a service scheduled to begin in about 20 minutes.  I had spent several months attending Anglican services many years ago, and enjoyed the tradition of liturgy.  Also, it would be nice to sit for a bit.  I didn’t see many people yet, so I asked a man standing in the entry if there indeed was a service scheduled.  He looked at me kindly, although a bit skeptically.  “Yes…  but it’s not a traditional service.”

“Oh that’s fine!”

He paused, as though not sure how to explain it.  “It’s more…uh…charismatic…”

I laughed,  “No problem!”

“Like, praise and worship?”

“Sounds good!”

He smiled.  “Are you visiting?”

I said I was just there for a few days.  He looked at me again, this time with more concern.

“Your purse, you should always wear it across your body, not just on your shoulder.”

I looked down.  He was right, I was just being careless.  I have heard his reminder in my head in many countries since, just when I was starting to get too comfortable and forget how much I always stand out as a foreigner.  I nodded my thanks and he showed me in, introducing me to a woman standing just in the doorway.

“Hello!  Welcome!  Are you hungry?  Do you need some dinner?”

I wasn’t expecting that!  They had food for those leading the service every week.  I thanked her for her offer, but declined.  We sat down and chatted a bit while waiting for the service to start, and she seemed to know everyone who came in.

I looked around the sanctuary.  It was very traditional, old and beautiful.  White marble, dark wood, and a quiet reverence created an atmosphere of peace and calm.  It was a nice place to rest.

In front, there was a piano and some speakers set up, looking a bit out of style from the rest of the building.  A woman started playing the piano and the service began.  Her husband led the singing, with a voice that enveloped the room in a deep resonance and clear pitch.  I knew most of the songs and thoroughly enjoyed the service.  After the preaching ended, the pastor came and introduced himself and we chatted a bit before I left.  It’s such a nice feeling to have an instant community, even so far away from home.

It was dark, so I got a pulled up an app and ordered a taxi back to my hotel.  As I was waiting, a man came up and started talking and then asked me for money.  I was grateful the car pulled up just then and I was able to leave.  App-based taxis have been a lifesaver on this trip, both internationally known and locally-developed options.  Being able to have costs fairly and clearly calculated, adding destinations by map pins, and being able to track the journey has made transportation simple and much safer.  It’s not readily available as regular taxis (like at 4:00 in the morning), but when it is, it’s a game-changer in travels.

The next day, I went to the Batu caves.  It’s easy to access at the end of the metro line and definitely worth a visit.  The caves have been used as a holy place for Hindu worship for over 100 years.  There are several caves with different stories from Hindu religious history, played out in pictures, colors, and figurines.  One cave is known as the “Dark Cave” and is a guided tour deep into the damp depths.  It’s amazing to see all that’s living and growing in the pitch black.  Stalagmites and stalactites are slowly building their pillared chambers, while bats, spiders, and countless other creatures and critters go about their life, only disturbed by visitors with flashlights, which happen through once an hour.

The main sight is the Temple Cave.  In front is a giant golden statue marking the entrance.  A set of 272 steps go up into the caverns, covered by countless tourists and monkeys, sometimes indistinguishable by behavior.  Last year, the steps were controversially painted in vibrant cascading shades, creating a visual melody of color scales.  The authorities were a bit miffed, but left the work in place.  I think it’s spectacular.

Inside the caves, more stories are played out, telling the tales of Hindu gods and battles and love and wrath.  There are weird lights, funny figures, and peacock carvings.  The caves themselves have some beautiful spots where light shafts create a sense of divine blessing.  Outside, mischievous monkeys play and fight and mostly look for snacks from tourists.  One had managed to grab a bottle of coke and looked quite pleased with himself as he sat back and drank his afternoon refreshment.

I headed back to my hotel which was in the heart of the massage district, both legitimate and sketchy.  I decided to try a Thai massage.  I didn’t know I had signed up for a torture session, as the gal contorted my arms and legs past their designated range and shoved her elbows and knees into my back, seemingly with great glee.  But it was cheap, and now I know!

The stop-over was short and sweet, with just enough time to rest after my first two months on the road. The next day, I was off to Cambodia and the journey continued.

 

In between volunteer time, I loved exploring my host city of Bandung, Indonesia.  Every Thursday, a hiking group sets out from town, sometimes with nothing more than a snap of Google earth with what looks like it might be a trail.  They’re a hearty bunch, ranging in age from 30s to 60s and expect anywhere from 4-14 to join for several hours of trekking through the hills that surround the city.  Our first hike was the tea plantations.  The boxy hedges wound through the mountainside in mosaic mazes, inviting you to get lost in exploration.  Fortunately, we had someone with a plan.  As lovely as the Victorian garden-like maze hedges looked, I hoped that the plan did not include getting lost, which apparently happens on the just the rarest of occasions.  This was not one of those occasions, and the views were gorgeous.

We made our way up and down the hills, passing a group of tea leaf pickers on a short break.  We finally emerged at a beautiful river, where six vibrant butterflies, yellow, turquoise, orange, were playing on the rock bridge.  I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to photograph them.  They are fast little things.  On the way back, we stopped and bought some vegetables and carnations from a farm, and then had lunch at an Italian restaurant for recarbation, also because carbs are absolutely delicious and a gift from God.

The next week, we had a cultural day with a zip tour of some of the rich and varied history of the area.  Our tour guide was the zesty and delightful Josie Josie, English teacher, intercultural ambassador, knowledgeable historian.  Josie legally only has a first name.  When she was born, her dad went to register her birth certificate and the authorities asked for a bribe.  He refused to pay, so she only got one name – Josie.  When she went to register for her passport, they required a last name, but she doesn’t have one!  So she just used her first name twice.  I don’t know who got the last laugh out of that government corruption, but Josie seems pretty happy in general, so I say points to her.

We started in the morning with some locally roasted coffee called Aroma.  The owners were fastidious in their explanations of exactly how the coffee should be ground, the temperature of the water, and the use of Robusta vs Arabica for various physical ailments.  It was delicious!

We stopped at a sweets shop and then visited a handicraft store, where you can watch them carve and paint wooden puppets that represent characters in their legends.  The artists can spend three days finishing just one doll.  A group of women sit around a table in the back, sewing clothing and accessories that give life and color to the figurines.

Then we were off to see ancient art of batik, the traditional textile patterns.  The designs are created by tracing patterns with wax.  Then the cloth is dyed by running it through a trough and laying it in the sun to dry.  More patterns and colors are added, until the multi-color textile is finished.  Hand-designed batik clothing can take months to complete and are considered exquisite.

After that, we had a Sundanese feast, laid out on banana leaves and eaten with your hands.  Chicken, fish, vegetables, and sauces are scooped up with balls of rice.  I don’t have too many OCD tendencies, but I really don’t like food on my hands.  However, with support, and enough temptation of a delicious meal, I somehow survived.  I did have to wash immediately afterwards to release all the built-up tension of messy hands, but was sent off with cheers of triumph, quite a bit of laughter, and a little bit of teasing for having made it through.

From there, we went to a cultural center where we watched the traditional musical instrument called an Angklung being carved out of bamboo.  We had wandered behind the main performance stage while waiting for the next show and saw the man who had been making them for 42 years.  He had a xylophone next to him that he would use to tune his carving.  He hit a note, listened, and then picked up the bamboo and shaved a little off one side, then a little off the other, and then checked the note again.  “You listen with your ear,” he explained, “And with your belly.”  He took obvious pride in his work and his eyes sparkled at having an interested audience.

The show featured traditional dances and performances over several hours.  Many children were part of the show, and just like with Christmas pageants, the most interesting part was watching that one 4-year-old doing her own thing on stage.  At the end, they passed out Angklung instruments to the audience, each carved to a different note, and we all played “Do-Re-Mi” from “The Sound of Music.”

As we were exiting the performance, I was accosted by a group of school children who all wanted to take pictures with me.  This isn’t an unusual occurrence in Bandung, but it always takes me by surprise. They took turns posing with me before scurrying off to join their teachers.

The cultural day was only a few stops, but traffic made it an all-day event.  Bandung is a crowded city and driving is a feat requiring all your wits and wisdom to make it through.  The streets are narrow, with no additional space for backing, parking, or turning.  Instead, every business and block has dedicated attendants who help you park and stop traffic while you back into the street to exit.  The parking positions are assigned by a group that is part public safety, part mafia, part community organizer.  It’s a job, and every driver will give them a small tip for their essential service.

Wages are low in Indonesia.  Taxis, restaurants, and services are ubiquitous, as human powered options are more affordable than purchasing more autonomous solutions.  Most middle-class families have a house helper, who assists in washing, cleaning, and meal preparation.  Providing employment is seen as a duty if you can afford it, although it often takes quite a mental adjustment for most Westerners.

Because services are so affordable, there’s been an explosion in innovative delivery options.  Go-Jek is a locally designed competitor to Uber (which was bought out in Asia by Singapore-based Grab, the app-based taxi of choice for most of SE Asia) and offers both quick and cheap transportation in cars and motor bikes, but also an array of mobile services.  Go-Clean is their maid service.  Go-Glam, mobile make-overs.  Go-Box, delivery, Go-Massage – just click yes.

The city is developing rapidly, sometimes too fast for the existing infrastructure.  The neighborhood where I was staying had recently added four massive new apartment complexes, without adding capacity in the local utilities.  Tap water only worked several hours a day, and every house was equipped with a large rooftop water tank to supplement the city supply.  There’s a famous building that was constructed quickly, with the investors bribing their way through the permitting process.  It’s visibly leaning over the roadway beneath and no one is interested in occupying a building completely lacking safety inspections.

Bandung is filled with charming coffee shops and delicious restaurants and many familiar comforts.  But you can’t go for too long without being reminded of the unique additions that are constantly surrounding you in the tropics.  Critters are everywhere.  Even in well-built houses, cleaned and constantly maintained, the ants will find you, or rather, any crumb of food you leave out.  Small sugar ants, larger…some other kind of ants, and all their various sized cousins in between.  Food must be kept airtight, preferable in the refrigerator, or you will quickly see a parade coming to feast.  Geckos stand sentry against mosquitos and spiders and are kind of cute once you get used to them. Cockroaches also have an adventurous spirit, exploring and surprising you when you least expect it, like for example, when you just finish washing your face and open your eyes to see one inches from your nose.  Fortunately, soap dispensers make terrific cockroach killers, in case you ever wondered.  Next!

The people of the city, though, are what make it memorable.  Indonesians are warm, friendly, and welcoming.  I loved listening to them roll their”Rs” – stretching out the sound like verbal spiraled confetti. Several times, I was invited to be a guest teacher at an English language class and thoroughly enjoyed the discussions.  One night, the lesson was on travel, and it looked like the teacher pulled the vocabulary from a Buzzfeed article, written on a caffeine-fueled desperate grasp for content.  Staycation and glamping were ok, but I wasn’t sure if I should mention that I’d never heard of mancation, flashpacker, or bratpacker.  I decided not to say anything, and we just discussed our favorite cultures and countries.  Later, the class invited me to join them for dinner.  It was essentially sit-down street food and it hit my system just like you’d expect, but the evening was so warm and sincere I’m glad I went, even if it took me three days to recover.

The people, the places, the experiences – Indonesia was a beautiful stop.

 

“So, is it hard to have your own opinion now?”

I had never been asked this question before.  The previous question was on the mounting trade tensions between the U.S. and China, and the supply-chain impacts for the region.  I prefaced my answer with a clear distinction that my answers were my own and not a reflection of my previous position as a U.S. government official.

I had been invited to address a university-level class on international trade and doing business with the U.S.  I always enjoyed the topic, and regularly spoke on it in my former job with the U.S. Department of Commerce at the University of Washington and other Seattle-area colleges.

The lecture was at one of the top schools in Indonesia and the students were sharp. I was expecting a follow-up question on my trade-tension answer, challenging, agreeing, pivoting, or digging a bit deeper.  I wasn’t expecting a question on whether it was hard not to have an official answer, and need to come up with my own.  Most people who have spent more than a few minutes with me quickly pick up that I have a plethora of opinions on any given topic, more than enough for me and options for anyone else in the room to adopt, as well.  If you don’t know which opinion you’d like to choose, I have an opinion on that too.

Asian culture is generally more consensus-based than the individualistic style of Westerners.  The question made sense in context, and I could see the differences even in the class engagement. I usually enjoy a robust Q&A time when I speak, but noticed that most of the questions were only coming from a few students, two to be exact.  I altered the format, and assigned some discussion questions and exercises in small groups so there could be more internal discussion before speaking up in front of the class.  As I wandered through listening to the different group discussions, several of the young woman stopped me to ask the questions they had been too shy to say in the larger class setting.  After we finished, they all insisted on a group picture with me, cycling through about a dozen phones so everyone could capture the shot.

Dropping into a different community, it took me a little while to get used to being the visitor, interesting because I was new.  I always enjoyed hearing from international travelers anytime they came through my circles in the U.S., but it admittedly felt a little odd to be on the other side of the attention.  Invitations to speak are always an honor, though, reflecting the trust the organizer has that you will be a good reflection on their reputation.  I always try to say yes to any opportunity.

Indonesia presented several occasions to speak and I was happy to do so.  I was asked to share a story at the international church I attended during my stay, and asked to speak at an English language class.  Towards the end of my visit, the request was to share at the Community Dinner event that my hosts put on twice a month.  I wrestled a bit with the topic.  What would be interesting?  How should I present it?  Would my stories translate well cross-culturally?  Since it was November, I thought about telling the story of the first American Thanksgiving, as we would also be enjoying a cross-cultural dinner, with gratitude for the provision.  Then I changed my mind – maybe it would only be interesting to history buffs or people with a focus on American traditions.

I procrastinated preparing my remarks as I kept flipping through options.  This was a mistake, because procrastinating is always the surest way to guarantee an unforeseen event will take up the majority of the extra time you thought you’d have.

Mine was a terrible, no good, very bad bout of food poisoning.  It knocked me out for three days straight, unable to eat and just barely drink anything.  My brain wasn’t interested in any additional work besides staying alive, a feat that at times it was convinced might be impossible.   But I had to prepare something, ready or not.

My situational aversion to food reminded me of when I was about 14 years old.  My family had been invited to a new acquaintance’s home for dinner.  The meal was fish.  I hated fish.  Couldn’t stand the taste, smell, or thought.  But we were guests and had also been taught to eat what was set before us (with grateful heart, to boot!).  This was a dilemma.  There was only one solution I could think of, and it was risky.  My older brother, Justin, was sitting to my right, fairly close by at the round table seating six.  Justin liked fish.  Justin hated germs.  Any food that touched a used utensil was considered contaminated.  (The repulsion is not past tense, just the story.)  I didn’t know if it would work, but I had no other options.  I carefully took a small piece of fish on my fork, waited until no one else was looking, and quickly dumped it on his plate.  He ate it!  I did it again.  Again!  Bless his heart if he didn’t eat the whole fish, and then ask for seconds.  It was a true act of brotherly love in my time of desperate need.

Family is universal.  That’s what I would talk about.  The love, support, and foundation that family gives us as we go through life.  Everyone has a family, good or bad.  I quickly sketched out a talk focused on thanksgiving and family, tying in both themes of the American celebration that translated anywhere.  By the time we arrived at the Community Dinner, I was still feeling drained and exhausted from my illness and didn’t want to risk eating any food.  But as the dinner filled up with students and young adults representing nations around the world, I overheard conversations naturally turning toward family, even when many of these students were far away from home. Family seems more integral to life in the East than most Western traditions.  Friends and acquaintances are called “sister” or “auntie” as a sign of respect.  Cousins are called “brother,” regardless of how distant they are.  Family binds the world together, one small group at a time.

I began my talk, pausing as my hosts reminded me to, “Slow down!!!”  My natural cadence is fairly clipped.  I thought I was speaking slowly, but the polite pace for second (or more!) language speakers of English is much more measured.  I started my talk with the fish story, slowly, enjoying the interactions as I spoke.  one girl in the back started laughing and nodding vigorously when I mentioned contaminated utensils touching other food. “You are the same!” I joked from the front. “Yes!!” I saw more heads nodding, identifying with the stories and applications as I continued.  When I finished, there were smiles and kind cheers, and I felt the last surge of public speaking adrenalin leave as I sunk into my seat to rest.

I thought back on all the stories from international travelers that shaped my childhood and youth.  I remembered the examples from distant countries that still stick with me, informing my opinions or providing insight into how humans work.  Now it was my turn to leave my stories, my examples, my experiences.  They were part of the global experience of humanity, shared with people who would take, dissect, remember, and integrate bits and pieces as part of their own.  Like me, they might start with, “I heard a speaker one time who said…”

Mostly, I hoped they remembered that we are all so alike. Our customs and foods and languages may be different, but so much of who we are and what we do and why we do it are the same. Our differences bring richness, color, and interest to who we are. Our similarities being understanding, empathy, and kindness. That’s the great beauty of travelers telling stories.

I met Dr. Hanna at church my first week in Indonesia.   She was spry, with a great sense of humor and not slowing down a bit, even into her mid-70s.  She was a medical doctor and spent her career in service, most recently working for the World Health Organization before her retirement.  Dr. Hanna’s current passion is supporting abused women and children, equipping them with the education, knowledge, and resources the need to live a safe, full, and productive life.

Women in Indonesia can feel quite invisible.  In a country of 250 million people, one-third of women reported being abused.  The government survey from last fall indicated that most abuse affected urban and educated women – which to me sounds like the type of women more likely to report abuse, so my guess is that the number is actually much higher.  Abuse still has a stigma, not only around the abuse itself, but also for women who speak up about it.  There is a law prohibiting domestic violence, but has failed to change cultural mindsets.  The home is still considered the sole jurisdiction of the male head of the household.  Many women also fear speaking up about abuse, as women are still suspected as having invited or deserved abusive actions in some way.  Last year, there was a case of a female bookkeeper who reported unwanted sexual advances and conversations from her supervisor. She recorded his phone conversation as proof.  She was arrested and jailed.

Child abuse is also a rampant problem.  Child sexual abuse targets boys more often than girls, although again, the official statistics are just the cases that have been reported and the social stigma is a strong deterrent for many families.  It’s a challenging statistic to track, especially in more rural areas where children are often seen as nothing more than potential assets.  One in four girls are married off before the age of 18, with many being under the age of 16.  Some parents will sell their daughters in marriage to pay debts.  Indonesia is the eighth highest country for the number of child brides, with 3,500 underage marriages happening daily.

One gregarious man I met loved connecting with English speakers.  He had a great sense of humor and was a fascinating conversationalist, in nearly fluent self-taught English with a mixture of Singapore and British accents.  His childhood story belied his easygoing behavior, though.  His parents were of mixed faiths, his mother was a Christian and his father was Muslim.  His brother was raised in Islam, while he was raised by his grandparents in their Christian faith.  His grandparents passed away when he was 6 or 7 years old, so he returned to live with his parents.  His father constantly abused him for his faith, verbally, and then physically.  He was forced to hold bricks above his head for hours.  One time he was dragged behind the car.  He told these stories matter-of-factly, as though it was just to be expected.  His father held a high position in the military.  What could you do?  Who would you tell?

Dr. Hanna sits on the board of JaRI, which is an acronym translated into Network of Volunteers.  The organization began in the 90s amidst student demonstrations and crackdowns.  The organization formed to stop violence.  Once that immediate crisis faded, JaRI reoriented to other forms of violence, focusing their efforts on the often silent but persisting issues surrounding women and children.

JaRI has proactively worked to create resources for women and children in abusive situations.  They have set up a hotline to report violence and offer free legal assistance to those suffering from abuse.  They have a network of psychologists that work with women in recovery and will travel to places where established care isn’t readily available.  They act as a resource to connect women with ongoing support and assistance, ensuring they have a full line of experts ready to walk with them as long as they’re needed.

Prevention is a large focus for the organization, as well.  Dr. Hanna has been working on material for schools and has launched a training program for young children on Safe Touch, a topic that has been widely ignored for far too long.  They recently received a grant to create educational videos for schools so they can scale their training much more quickly.

As with any topics that involve humans, it’s easy to have solutions for statistics, but harder for specific stories.  One of my friends was working on a research project following underage domestic workers, a group of about a dozen girls she had gathered.  One girl in her study had dropped out of school because her family needed money.  She seemed well treated by the family she worked for but had been excited to start studying through a weekend program.  She had recently married a man who seemed kind and caring and would help her finally become financially stable, enabling her to focus on finishing her education.  A month or so after her marriage, she contacted my friend crying, because her new husband had hit her.  She wasn’t sure what she should do.  Every action had so many repercussions – nothing seemed simple.

JaRI had some incredible successes for a small and nimble organization.  Dr. Hanna and I met for several hours to talk about what the organization had accomplished so far, and what still needed to be done.  We came up with some strategies to increase their profile, strengthen communication, and recruit more volunteers to help.  She invited me to present the recommendations to the board.

The JaRI offices are in an old hospital building.   I would have been completely lost if Dr. Hanna hadn’t been leading the way through the twists, turns, courtyards, and stairs.  I met the small team that lead their efforts, an impressively credentialled group of doctors and psychologists, and the hotline lady – who had the kind, supportive, inviting personality that seemed just perfect for the job.  We talked for several hours over recommendations for future growth.  The current board president, a sharp, witty, doctor, seemed interested in the presentation, but a little bemused.  When I had finished, her first comment was, “We are a bunch of old ladies!  I don’t know if we can do all of this.”  I laughed.  “But look at all you’ve already done – you’re a pretty impressive bunch of old ladies!”  They all laughed too.

We focused on activating their fundraising support group, called “Friends of JaRI” to start looking for more volunteers.  They had a few university students helping out with social media.  One challenge with using stories to inform and raise the issue publicly was the sense that there would be more backlash against the stories than against the problem.  “The public isn’t ready yet.”  The social sentiment was that if you are a woman, you should be prepared to suffer.  While that was exactly the mindset they were trying to change, it would still take time.

They shared a story of a family in a village where they had recently worked who offered up a baby as a collateral for a loan.  “Did anyone call the police?”  No one was sure.  Everyone agreed that that wasn’t right, but the legal process for enforcing that was still fuzzy.  “The law is only for people who can’t evade it.”

The food came out and the conversation continued.  More was needed.  More was always needed.  More money.  More volunteers.  More profile.  More access.  But every big problem starts with people who work with what they have, where they are, doing what they can.  These women in their mid-70s were probably nearing the end of their volunteer time, but more would step in and continue the work.  The statistics speak to the very large need, overwhelming even.  But these ladies, grandmas who should be relaxing with knitting or something, knew it was too important to stop, because behind each statistic is a real person who needs help.

Traveling is a funny thing.  You have to meet people quickly, bond deeply, and let go easily. And you notice how much your heart has expanded, despite leaving pieces of it everywhere you go.  People are what make travel interesting, memorable, meaningful. People are the stories behind the places.

The best way to meet people is through other people, so it’s helpful to have other people you already know.   This is not always easy when showing up in a new city half-way around the world from home.  I was fortunate to be hosted by Waldemar and Rosemary Kowalski, who have lived in Bandung, Indonesia for about four years now.  Waldemar was my Systematic Theology professor over 20 (!) years ago and it did take a few days to not feel like I should be taking notes for a future test whenever we talked.  They are both PhDs and enjoy a variety of opportunities to speak, teach, and connect with learners in their city, as well as throughout the region.

They have a beautiful home in a city known for its universities.  It’s peaceful.  The yard has several fruit trees, gorgeous flowers, and happy birds and critters, making the very air seem alive and active.  The guest rooms are on the second floor.  The wrap around balcony filled with plants made me feel like I was at a resort – it was a beautiful place of rest.

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But their home is certainly not an isolated retreat center – it’s constantly a hub of activity.  The day after we arrived, they hosted a party for a couple who would soon be leaving the city.  There must have been 80 people there, bringing food, laughter, and clearly feeling welcome and at home.   I met a number of students practicing their English so they could get their graduate degrees abroad.  The Indonesian government offers a scholarship program for anyone who gets accepted into a foreign university program, with a promise that they’ll return to Indonesia to work for at least 5 years.

Community isn’t always easy, even in the most ideal circumstances. Indonesia is generally a peaceful country, comprised of more than 17,000 islands across a huge stretch of ocean. There are more than 200 ethnic groups and 700 languages spoken throughout Indonesia. The unifying language is known as “bahasa Indonesia,” literally, “Indonesian language.”

However, they have had challenges with terrorism, sectarian conflict, and ethnic tensions. In the late 90s, there were brutal and targeted attacks against the ethnic Chinese living there. Recently, the largest tension has been between moderate and strict interpretations of Islam in presidential candidates. It’s the largest Muslim nation in the world, with 90% of the 260 million strong population claiming adherence. It’s illegal to not have a religion. Only six religions are approved, and your affiliations is printed on your ID card. In an area where distrust and isolation has had deadly consequences, knowing and loving your neighbor becomes an urgent mandate for peaceful coexistence.

The Kowalski’s have taken that mandate seriously, and have done something about it.  Capitalizing on their exotic position as American professors, they started hosting monthly movie nights for the community.  They attract mostly young people, university students or recent graduates eager to practice English and always up for a good movie.  They set up projectors, hook up speakers for surround sound, and cook all day to provide a meal, dessert and connection time for up to 100 people who join every month.

There’s always a break where a conversational topic is introduced, and a short discussion of the movie at the end.  Community is intentionally built.  There’s a mix of belief systems, faith convictions, ethnic backgrounds, and countries of origin.  But movie nights are forming deep friendships with the “regulars” who show up every month and their movie community is starting to feel like their own.

Food is always a good way to gather people to connect.  I used to tease my colleagues that I would show up at any networking event that included free food.  The Kowalski’s also host Community Dinners twice a month (as well as study groups at their home twice a week – how does your entertaining schedule measure up?)  Community Dinners take place at a local school, where they have more space for a hosted meal, a topical discussion, and some kind of activity designed to help people connect and create.

Our first community dinner was a theme around life passions.  We arrived early to set the room.  Clau was one of the organizers and had a gift of creativity.  She had gathered bits and pieces, old jars, burlap cloth, wild flowers, and designed a beautifully artistic table arrangement.  We did our best to replicate her example across the 9 tables in the room.

It’s amazing how a few decorations can transform a classroom into an inviting dining area.  Soon, the food began to arrive, catered by new friends.  There was rice, plenty of it, meat, salad, veggies, and a few sweets for dessert.  Everything was set and ready, and we said a quick blessing over the night’s activities.

 

The first student to arrive was from Tajikistan, there for university studies.  He was friendly and soft spoken.  He had a square cut beard and looked strikingly similar to Cousin Mose from The Office sitcom.  He was soon joined by more students, from Rwanda, France, Uzbekistan, and others.  We counted 15 countries represented in total.  The locals arrived later, better able to guess at the traffic conditions, which is always a feat.  Matcha!  Matcha! Matcha! Traffic!  It was a constant, yet highly unpredictable variable for any event.  I met several students who had come to Indonesia to study English.  I thought it was an odd choice of venue, but it seemed to be working, as we discussed life and food and friends on our common language.

 

I was standing next to the door when two young women came in, laughing and joking with each other.  Their headscarves were artfully draped around their faces and they were chattering in almost fluent English.  They recognized that I was new and immediately introduced themselves.  I asked where they learned to speak English so well.  “Movies!  And we practice with each other as much as we can.  We love English!”

 

They invited me to join their table.  “You didn’t get any chili sauce!  You have to try it, it’s so delicious!”

 

“Are you sure it isn’t insanely hot?”  I was suspicious.  They laughed, “Trust us, trust us!”  I dished up some sauce on my plate and went to add it to my rice and chicken.  “Oh, maybe not quite that much.  Smaller!”  It was my turn to laugh.  “Thank you for taking care of me!”  They were right, it was delicious, but certainly had a kick.

 

The program started with welcomes and introductions, and then a short message was shared about what each person does uniquely well, and what talents they have to contribute to the community.  On each table were paper cutouts that looked like plain gingerbread men, and stacks of colorful paper, scissors, glue, and markers.  The activity instructions were to create “you” in the future, living out your passion.  There was an initial swell of conversation, then quiet, as heads were bent and fierce creative concentration ensued.

At my table, I asked each gal to explain their creation.  One wanted to be a chief.  Another wanted to be a singer.  We all brought our people over to one table to admire the amazing creativity from everyone in the room.  I was shocked at some of the incredible detail included.  People were laughing, asking which was whose, and continuing conversations as they moved for more dessert.

It’s hard to build community, especially when it seems like there are so many more differences than not.  But looking at each creation, on a plain paper with bright decorations, it looked like one group of people, the same, just wanting to do different things.  They all looked more alike than different.

The evening officially ended soon after that, but friendships, old and new, continued as the students agreed on an “after party” spot to continue to evening together.  They tumbled into shared cars and motorbikes, laughing together and building relationship with people they knew better than when the night had begun.  It seemed like such a small thing, but it was so important.

 

2:30 a.m.  I was very confused by the noise, which turned out to be my alarm clock – this is often a confusing noise, regardless of the time.  We needed to be at the airport at 4:30 am, and had to do final cleaning at the condo before we left.  Groggily, we shuffled, and swept, and packed, and mopped, and I still had time for a Nescafe cup of coffee before we left – a crucial safety precaution for myself others around me.

Hazel’s aunt dropped us off with hugs and thanks and we headed over to the AirAsia kiosk to check in.  We printed off our boarding passes, but for some reason it wasn’t printing the baggage check, so we went to the counter to finish up.  The woman working there looked at our boarding pass, looked at her computer, looked at our passports, looked at her computer, and then told us that the flight that morning had been cancelled.  So sorry!  We should have received an email a few days ago.  We hadn’t.  “We are here on a 30-day visa.  Today is day 30.  We need to leave.”  She asked us when we flew in.  She was entirely too chipper for 5:00 am, but she seemed quite pleased when she flipped her calculator around to show us that we were in fact on day 29.  I scrunched my forehead.  I knew I counted this dozens of times.  I didn’t necessarily trust my brain on just one cup of Nescafe, but we had planned this part of our trip in my normally-caffeinated state.  I whipped out my trusty manual abacus and started ticking off days on my fingers.  30.  We were at day 30.

“No, no,” Miss Airline replied, “September only has 30 days, so you’re fine!”

Yes, but I had already noted that.  “I know we’re at 30 days today.”

She pulled out a calendar and started tapping off days with an eraser.  Starting on the day after we landed.  She was counting nights, not days.  I was pretty sure their Immigration counted days, starting when we landed.  “We really have to leave today, as we originally booked, or we’ll overstay our visa.”

She clacked away on her machine a bit more.  She asked for our passports again.  “I’m going to check with Immigration for you.  Can you wait?”  We literally didn’t have any other place to be or go, so we nodded and sat down.  Hazel and I were both exhausted.  I may have started singing something.  I think Hazel was more than mildly annoyed at the situation.  Or maybe it was the singing.  I really needed more coffee.

About 45 minutes later, a uniformed officer approached carrying two blue passports.  We must have been the most American looking people at the counter area because he picked us out right away.  “I’m sorry, but your visa is only for 30 days.  If you don’t exit the Philippines today, you’ll be fined for overstaying.”  He handed us our passports and then left.  Ok then!  Now we had that answer.  Back to AirAsia.  It was now close to 6am, we short on sleep, short on coffee, and trying to figure out what to do next.  We informed Miss AirAsia about our visa confirmation and once again reiterated that we needed to leave the Philippines today, per our original booking.  And then smiled.  And waited.

She clacked away.

“I need to speak with my supervisor.  She won’t be in for another two hours.  Can you please wait?”  What else could we do?  So we sat down and waited some more.  I shot a message to our hosts in Indonesia and let them know we wouldn’t be arriving on our scheduled flight and may or may not be arriving that day at all.

About 9:30a.m., the supervisor arrived and after more clacking, conferring, consternation, and consultation, they informed us they had booked us on another flight through Kuala Lumpur that would get us into Jakarta around 9:30pm.  This was much later than our original direct flight, but what could we do?  Thank you very much, please book it.

We arrived in Jakarta and had been instructed to find the shuttles at the far end of the airport.   Exhausted, but feeling close to victory, we dragged ourselves to the edge where we saw people gathered on benches and busses loading up people.  We had been given two bus companies to look for, which had good reputations.  I wasn’t seeing any of them, although their online time table indicated at least one of them should have come and gone by then.  After 20 minutes, we asked someone who looked like they might know something if he could tell us the bus to Bandung.  “Yes, yes, sit here”  Ok, good.  We sat.  And sat.  And sat.  Finally, I noticed the man’s uniform was affiliated with a specific bus company, and not the one we were looking for.  They probably didn’t have the right bus, anyway, as we hadn’t seen any going to our city.

We went back inside to see if we had missed ticket counters.  Indeed we had!  There was a whole row of them, with various companies represented.  I found the one company we had been recommended.  There was no one there.  We waited a few minutes.  Still no one.  The other counters were filled with young people, much more interested in their phones and flirting with each other than trying to get customers.  Finally, we went to the next counter.  They didn’t speak English.  They called their friends over at the next company, who had a few more words, but not enough.  He took us to another friend at a different company who spoke English and had a bus going to our destination.  Plus, they took credit cards.  Thank God, please take my money.  It was still another 30 minutes before our bus arrived, but at least we had a ticket purchased.

I updated our hosts by text that we should be arriving at around 2:30 am.  I felt terrible to inconvenience them, but they were gracious in their response and said they’d meet us at the bus station.  We finally board at about 11:30, almost incoherently tired.  As the bus started rumbling away, the A/C kicked on to arctic temperatures and the road conditions guaranteed sleep would be scarce.  We were so close. I was looking forward to a nice bed.

I checked Google maps to confirm arrival times…and discovered road construction.  Right smack in the middle of our journey.  I regretfully updated our host that our arrival time was bumped to 5:30 am.  They said not a problem.

We finally arrived, bedraggled, exhausted, and glad to have a bed waiting.  Waldemar and Rosemarie Kowalski warmly welcomed us, showed us our rooms, and let us know that a masseuse was coming later in the day, if we were interested.  Oh yes, please! 

Welcome to Indonesia!  It was so nice to finally be there.