last trip to the rice fields... and the aftermath

Today was a biggie. Made this appointment a couple of weeks ago with a farmer who really knows his stuff. His was the farm I visited with all the gold around, when I felt like the world was coming together in all the right ways. For today, he offered to help me catch and identify all the insects we could find. I was determined to photograph them and make note of the Balinese and Indonesian names. I made a list of all the ones people already told me about and had it ready as a checklist. He added a few to it. Here's a little snippit.

* Sidenote- insects are an excellent food source and really quite delicious. They can be enjoyed in a variety of nice ways and provide well needed protein for many people. This account is only in reaction to touching them before they are fried...

This wonderful university student from Denpasar has been helping me some with my research. I originally contacted her for help with language but she is doing so much more! Today, without any hesitation, she went directly to hunting. One lady in the fields told her how to find blauk (dragonfly larva) and she dug into the mud right away, looking. Then, in her greatest feat, she caught spiders. With her fingers. Just two fingers, like it was nothing. And these are the type of spiders who don't make webs so they are *fast*! She grew up in the city; joined me in her first rice planting last time we were together. Then just captured these things like it was second nature. I was completely blown away.

The farmer led me all around to the different rice fields, asking other farmers if they had seen this bug or that animal. At one point, we were down to one major one- bluwang. That's the Balinese name. In Indonesian, it's orang-orang, which means people. Because it has hands. We found one field that was tilling soaked soil and the farmers pulled out four or five. I put them into my glass jar. They do, indeed, have hands. And an amazing ability to give me the creeps. As the hunt was winding down, we joined his older brother in a hut and his wife gave us coffee and these sweet snacks: sticky rice with coconut cream, sugar and little beans. The best part was the way they were wrapped in leaves, held together with tiny sticks and natural string. I complimented her repeatedly and she eventually just insisted I take the whole bag.

Back at his house, where I thought I would be photographing my catch, he clarified some names and sent me on my way. The task would be a solo adventure in the apartment. The tile here is white, so that was a bonus and the owner is a photographer, so there was extra lighting available. The only question was how I was going to single out each of the creatures- frogs, spiders, the thing with hands, a catepiller bug that convulses (and repulses) regularly, dragonfly larva, tadpoles, grasshoppers, a cricket, eels, tiny snails etc. Many were dead and some were almost out of life; I felt awful about this. "Borrowed" the resident sauce pan with lid to contain them in, washed my glass container and steeled myself. Repeatedly. Handled the dead ones first with minimal shivers. But when it came to the bluwang, I started hopping. Everything was more sensitive and it felt like something was crawling on me at all time. I freed the frogs (already had photos of them in the wild) and skipped the eels because I had them already too. And got through the cricket and the grasshopper so they could go live free. The rest I used spoons and cups and tweezers to move around. In the rice field, they were fine. The little legs would make me cringe a bit but they were organic and natural. They belonged. It's manageable. Here in the apartment, their alien nature was clear as day. Even the neighbors' cat avoided my sauce pan of clicking and scratching. One by one my models hopped and oozed on my photo pallet.

Then I got to the jubel. This catepiller thing with a fat body, few legs and floppy antenea. It was at the bottom and I didn't see it until I poured out all the water. One of my best "informants" (who I accidently met while getting a facial. Research is about living life- you never know where information will reveal itself!) said she loves all of the insects, excep the jubel. Everytime she said the name, her hands flew up to her face like she was frantically trying to sho away a fly. This one looked dead. I grapped the tweezers and seized its tail. It convulsed and squeaked. Loudly. And I screamed. Loudly. Bit my arm to shut myself up and narrowly missed the glass case of expensive equipment. Oh holy mother of. These things are ugly. Ugly and fat and slimy and they convulse and squeak.

I am supposed to be studying people! That is what "anthro-pology" means- the study of man! How did I end up in a Balinese apartment by myself in the middle of the night with a sauce pan of insects and frogs, lighting equipment, a spoon, my dinky point-and-shoot camera, tweezers and a squeaking jubel!? I had to walk outside, take a deep breath, then just go for it. It squawked and bent itself in half repeatedly, violently. I took 3 photos of it and called it a night. Dumped the whole lot in the field behind the apartment, wished the living ones well, cleaned up the splattered mud and washed everything down. Then burned incense in the spot. Part of clarify and part to clear out the mud scum smell.

I have a potluck to go to. With people, to talk to. Life's roads never cease to amaze me.

how to hunt a dragonfly

Did you know dragonflies have mouths? And that they open them like they are screaming when you rip their wings in half and spear them with a stick? Thought for today: maybe this wasn't the best project for a vegetarian to choose...

Went dragonfly hunting with a small army of children. By research rules, I am not allowed to have anyone under 18 as an "informant" and I'm not allowed to take pictures of people. Luckily there are no such rules for a personal blog (I did receive permission from both them and the parents though).



Started at a family compound of two of the children. Their mom made our "weapons"- a long rod made of the spine from a banana leaf.



Into the tip, she shoved the middle of a coconut leaf, called lidi. Lidi are used on brooms and to hold the leaf baskets of offerings together- tough but very flexible. The end of the lidi was coated in a sticky gun made of the sap of a frangipani tree and coconut oil. The perfect consistency is sticky, but does not come off onto anything so you can keep reusing the same rod for several trips.



Accompanying this tool is the stiff section the lidi, one end sheared to a point, like a spear, the other wrapped in a sort of flag- coconut leaf folded in half and attached with the gum. A wand, if you will.



I was "scheduled" to go with just one little girl, already waiting at the field but the two at the compound wanted to come too. Their father drove and I sat on the back of the motorbike with the rod and wand while the kids rode in the front. Four to the bike- a sweet feat. I felt honored to take part. Two more children joined us at the fields and we marched out into the coming dusk and hunted until sunset. I only learned by watching. Kids are the greatest language challenge because they speak quickly, say whatever they want and look at you funny if you don't understand. They didn't speak to me though- just demonstrated:

How to hunt a dragonfly:

- find one that has, preferably, already alighted

- hold the rod at the minimum distance needed to reach the insect on its perch so as to minimize movement. The lidi is very waverable, so this is important (and my downfall at later attempts)

- get as close to the dragonfly as you can without touching what it is resting on

- slowly move the rod in its direction until the rod touches it, most likely on the wings or the legs

- or, if you are an expert, simply swoop down on the insect and stick it to the rod with no hesitation

- pull the rod towards you or point the end at a friend

- either you or the friend grab the dragonfly by the body or its fast beating wings




- rearrange so the wings are between your thumb and forefinger, then rip them in half, leaving just ragged stumps. This is to ensure they don't fly away if you happen to drop them

- grab the tool with the "flag." Place the sheared end up to the insect's midsection and push it through very slowly. It will remain alive, breathing with torn wings beating. If you are a conscientious objector, it may be good to close your eyes during this part or you may end up squealing or otherwise dancing around involuntarily shuttering. Just saying...

- slide it to the end of the flag or to the end of the next bug down. Your wand will continue to vibrate with beating wings

- repeat until the wand is full

We collected 35 in total. Although I speared two, I tried (and failed) three times to stick one to the end; the kids just took the rod back. My conscience feels slightly clearer for this. They will be used later for Campung Pepes, which, honestly, looks quite delicious.

A recipe:

Pepes Campung

- fully de-wing the dragonflies
- prepare about a cup of fresh coconut cream
- add onions, garlic, white tumeric, chilis and dragonflies
- wrap in a banana leaf
- roast over an open fire, heating the leaf, but not burning
- open and enjoy with rice

why I'll never be an academic anthropologist

Apologies for all the "I's" and the quickly written vent

I just accidently met an anthropology PhD student from Berkeley in Kafe, one of the expat hangouts in Ubud that serves organic food. Berkeley used to be my top choice for graduate school, but as with all other important life-directing decisions, I chose against that school based on instinct and went instead with the first one that popped up on google when I entered 'nutritional anthropology' or some such nonsense. Don't tell anyone though. I did research it (some) before I got there.

So once we both figured out we were in the same field, we started talking shop. The Triple A's, a FLAS, NSF grants, HRC and the IRB board the Sahlins/ Obeyesekere debate. But short of these, our conversations were very different. For him, it was all about theorists-"Who are you reading now? What books did you take with you?" and who I knew and worked under, if Marcus was at UT when I was (oh wait, he was at Rice). It was transglobal and post modern writing. My end was catching dragonflies and how to cook eels. How showing up late at my village last night led to some unexpected discomfort because I don't understand the concepts of Balinese time. (Oh, wait, I didn't share that for fear of not being polished enough). And as we talked about what happens in American Anthropology, I...just...wasn't interested. I don't care about the nuances of personality in passive agressive academic debate (those were from his terms). And I don't care to EVER sit through another panel of professors who read dense writing at 100 miles an hour and expect you to take something away from it. And I really don't care for the competition or the convolusion, for spending every moment away from my reading or work feeling guilty. It has become, in my mind, a waste of this precious time on Earth.

We talked about how most anthropologists are socially awkward or hate people and how ethnography isn't that important in most top departments anymore (even though everyone still does it). And I realized... but that's why I'm here. These last few of weeks have been some of the most fulfilling in my life. Short of my partner being gone and moments I wanted to be with family, they are everything I had hoped for in a dream. A permission slip and window to speak with people who think so differently from myself and are able to explain how and why and if and who and where and what they love. It is better than any front row seat to any concert on the planet. And if I could do this for the rest of my life, there would be no question. But I can't. The reality is that academic anthropology is one year fieldwork for your PhD, then struggling for the rest of your life for grant money and a sabbatical to do it again; in the meantime, fighting for publication and a job and furthering your career, long hours in the office and juggling 1000's of undergraduate students who barely care. I think some people enjoy that, I just no longer think I am one of them.

My ego has checked out and I've moved onto something else. Some other way to have these experiences- be able to see people playing and ask to join in



and some other way to keep learning new ways of being, thinking and doing. Constantly learning how little I know and how much of what I think is wrong. It's an addictive rebuilding I'm not sure I'll ever get enough of.

It's easier to do these things under the academic ticket- you have more clout and more doors open. But there has to be other ways too. Teaching abroad maybe. Who knows. I feel quite certain though that after this graduation, a certain door will have closed and a whole new horizon will have to present itself for further exploration.

the answer

So while pondering the below problem, I ran into a Swiss friend I had met a few weeks ago. We chatted for a bit, and it turned out he was returning to Europe for a few weeks, leaving his apartment open. After a little more chatting, he asked if I would like a place to stay for free for the rest of my time here. Are you kidding me?! He threw in that it had wifi and a stove. Did I just want to see it? He was leaving in two hours so we'd have to go soon.

Delayed a trip to Sanur and decided I would just have to check out late at my homestay and pay for another night. When he spoke of the apartment before, I pictured something very Balinese- a little dark, cement floors, an Indonesian bathroom. I didn't care if it was just a hammock and somewhere I could lock up my stuff. ANYthing free at this point sounded like a good deal.

It's in an adjoining village becoming populated by expats and absolutely beautiful (albiet fancier than my preference). The apartment is part of a complex with a little garden and some tables for communal or moon pondering moments. It's on the second and third floors, where a carefully laid stone path leads to two glass doors framed in dark wood, swinging wide to a tile floor, intermittenly decorated with the same stone designs.






The stove is a two burner, with the propane tank under the counter, brand new. A sink and, so excited, a water dispenser. I buy at least two big bottles of water a day. With this thing, I could buy a huge, refillable bottle, like we think of Sparklettes, for less than the previous daily water budget AND not keep using plastic that just gets burned in the street. A counter for storing teas and coffee and bowls. It is a work space, primarily, as he works on computers and does photography on the side. There's a bench and a table and a glass case filled with equipment, his work on the walls- 360 views of rice fields cum panoramic shots, showing all 4 directions at once.



The end of the main room has two large windows which swing open to a grass field and the quiet street, palm trees too, of course.



The bathroom is also tile and stone and has hot water and a sitting toilet. There's even toilet paper. And I cannot say how excited I am to use the towel. I kind of miss towels.

There are a lot of friends who live here aleady- a (clean) cat came to visit last night, sharing all kinds of stories and hiding herself in the bookshelf in the bedroom when I tried to shoo her out for bed. Lots of ants of all kinds, incredibly sensitive to any sort of food and happy to join me in the bed. Lots of geckos and bigger lizards, and even a spider with a body the size of a silver dollar, waiting for me downstairs last night. We're getting to know each other and trying to discuss boundaries. I think I'll lose most of those negotiations though.

A wooden ladder leads to the sleep loft, lots of wood, with a ceiling fan and 360 windows. Flowering trees butt their heads up to the glass and greet me in the morning.





He said the bed sags but I slept fine under a sarong for a sheet. Easy. The best part- there are, by some miracle, few chickens in the neighborhood. It may be one of those noises you get used to, the crowing of a cock, but I haven't managed that yet. Usually I wake at 4:30am and every hour after as they sneak into my dreams. I slept until almost 8am today and rolled over to turn on my compuer, completing some work before getting out of bed. Fresh coffee (with milk I can store in the fridge!) and homemade organic meusli, bought at a natural foods store. He also left his mountain bike and I took it into town last night, relishing the burning in my legs as I pumped up the hills. I missed it so much! Am completely alone here (except for the creature companions) and completely spoiled. And really, really blessed. It feels like winning the lottery.

I know I should have stayed in the rich cultural environment, and maybe if both options were free, I would have. When I went back to pack my bags, the family helped and I gave souvenires and asked if it would be okay to return sometimes and talk with them. They said of course and helped me suit up on the bike. It feels as though I made friends and also gained a place to get my work done... and a few creature comforts I sort of missed. Today I hunt down two more contacts and learn how to catch and cook dragonflies from a little girl, then come back to the apartment to write it all up.

Onto the next chapter here, running into the homestretch....

should I stay or should I go now?

Been thinking about how much a homestay situation would really add a lot to my experience here. Not a homestay in terms of a small hotel (that is what they are called here because the family usually lives on site as well), but in terms of every day interaction, cultural exchange and language practice...

Gave up my steady room in Ubud because it was getting too expensive to cover it while I traveled around, paying simultaneously for rooms I actually slept in. Kept it originally because:

1) I have more crap than I need and it's difficult to cart it all around on a motorbike. Wearing a large backpack and negotiating traffic, especially while learning how to drive here, felt like a daunting task.

2) The room had hot water.

3) It was relatively cheap and a good value; not easy to find in high season here.

4) I got to know the staff pretty well and had stayed there a couple years ago for three weeks. Something about it felt like home.

They kept my bags for me when I went to the village for a couple of days, but upon return said I had to pay full price for my room since I was no longer promising a long stay. That was out of my budget range. I said it was probably a good time to search for another place.

Looked at 4 or 5 places but they were either full, expensive or dirty. Then came across a little homestay on a backroad. The rooms were bungalows, free standing onto themselves and set back along a stone path in a garden area, overlooking a river valley beginnings. The first one they showed me had painted (and peeling) doors and a lovely patio with a recliner chair positioned for afternoon sun, a little wooden table on which to eat breakfast and an open air bathroom (love those!) No hot water (can't say how much I treasure that now) but the bed felt comfortable and the price was only 50 cents more than my other room. I'll take it!

Made myself speak Indonesian at the check in and they kept it up the whole stay. The girl especially. I took all my research out on the porch and was organizing photos when she and her little boy came by to visit.



We spoke for a while and she leaned against my leg like we were sisters. We talked about our families and what I was doing there, showed her some photos and she told me the names of different insects. We looked up words in the dictionary and discussed language. The little boy was running around everywhere so I asked him if he like to draw and gave him one the pencils I had brought with me for kid gifts. He made a picture of chickens. Then she left to do offerings around the property and asked me to look after him. We took photos of each other and I said "bagus" a lot (means "good"). It felt like being with a family. It felt like everything I had been thinking about.

But there was a catch. When they came up, I was in one of my few work zones where I am focused and motivated. Their visit took two hours from the day and I couldn't get anything done. She was gone for almost 45 minutes when I was watching the boy and I started to feel like a babysitter. Finally found her brother and sent the little boy wit him so I could go to a coffee shop. When I returned, they all hovered around my room, waiting to talk again and the little boy wanted my camera to play with. He's young so I couldn't turn it over unsupervised. It is sweet and contains all those elements I had hoped for, but I'm not sure if this is the best research and work environment. I already told them I would like to stay here when in Ubud and she gave her number to make sure the room was ready before I arrived. Do I keep that agreement and stay or do I subvert it and find somewhere new, trying to avoid this street and hope to not run into them in town. The price is so good but I can't stay holed up in my room if I want to get work done. Should I stay or do I go...?

how could I refuse?

Truth be told, I have been rather lonely the last week. From having a travel partner around all the time to complete separation, combined with some strong antibiotics (they don't give any options for strength) had me all kinds of ups and downs... mostly the latter. I came to Amed for something different, a circuit breaker. After my first day and evening, I thought one day was enough. The motorbike ride was exhilerating and I'd just head back to Ubud tomorrow.

Then I went to eat at a place with live reggae music and the owner came to speak to me. He's Balinese and very polite, not pushy or strange in any way. He asked how long I was staying in Amed and I said just one night. He pretended to fall out of his chair and said Amed is a place you stay for a week at least! No, a month! I laughed and said I had to be back in Ubud for research by Monday, so I would just go back early and prepare. He offered me a cheaper room at their hotel and a promise for fun the following night- music on the beach and a live band down the way. His friend who owns a dive shop came by to chat too and offered me a dive trip for $25 dollars... to a shipwreck. The Liberty, an American ship sunk by the Japanese in WWII. Underwater manmade things are one of my biggest creepy fears, but $25 for a dive... how could I refuse? What was there, really, to be scared of? I thought maybe I would just stay one more night.

It was one of the greatest descisions of this trip. I met a couple of British folks through the diving and before we even made it in the water, they signed up to come out with us to see live music that night. They were easy and fun and the girl, Vicky and I, had nonstop conversation. The ship was so reclaimed by nature, you could hardly tell it was man made. Lots of coral growing in all directions (including fire coral which I ran into while we were all holding hands. Yow!) Our guide did swing dancing with us on the ocean floor and after we got out, we convinced him to come out as well and we arranged a time to meet in Amed. The Brits and I had lunch together and I agreed to return for dinner. Rested at my new place next to the Rasta bar in a room overlooking the ocean, then headed out for a little motorcycle run. The bar was full of a group of laughing, playing, singing Balinese and two Irish girls. The owner, who had invited me last night, held out a little glass of Arak, the local spirit and asked me to join them. Everyone started waving me over. I had been on the motorbike a lot already... how could I refuse?

We laughed and talked and sang (I played my helmet as a drum) until it was time to go to dinner. I said I would meet them later for music but they wanted us to come join them here first, offering to be motorbike taxis for my British friends and their two travel partners. Sparing the details, we made it to the place with music and danced and laughed and played musical chairs and everyone got to know each other-Irish, English, American and Balinese. The band ended early and one of our hosts invited us to his beach house for a fire and guitars. It was a beautiful place, the full moon rising over the sea. Over 20 people crowded around the fire, singing and talking and jostling each other. I played stones to keep beat. Even an older man came out in his temple garb to sit with us and sing a little.



This morning, I packed to leave, but was sad to do so. As I sat at breakfast, they said I should stay another day. I have to get my research on Monday afternoon and thought it would be best to go early and rest up. We laughed at some silly language translations and I withdrew to stare at the sea and think about my personal quandries. One guy at the end took charge and said I couldn't leave. It wasn't allowed and all of Bali was out of petrol today anyway, using it to pay back a debt to Japan. He pretended to get on the phone with the police and ask them if I could go to Ubud, reporting that they would arrest me if I tried. The Irish girls said I could stay in their room- their beds were plenty big enough and the owner said of course I could stay for free. Two boys started singing me Bob Marely, "Every little ting, is going to be alright... No, woman, no cry...." Promise of a snorkle trip at 2pm to another wreck, then fresh roasted fish, followed by more music on the beach... how could I refuse?

first executive meeting

I had no idea what I was getting into.

They opened with Om Swasi Astu. A community greeting. Sanskrit. It means, “God is among us.” Or the spirit or however you think of the divine. It involves clasping your hands and bowing down slightly at the neck. Ahhh, the divine. What a lovely … *POW!*

Then it started. Two hours of rapid, professional Indonesian! The room was set up with four long tables, arranged in a square. There was a projector whirling two seats down from me, mostly sending a blank screen onto the wall. The speakers (two women and maybe 12 men) pressed a button on a device in front of them and spoke. Some were loud. Some were quiet, but all were really fast. I had the sensation of being on one of those 0-60mph in 5 seconds roller coasters. Just held on for dear life. It took maybe a ½ hour for it to start sounding like connected phrases instead of just individual words but even after the flow kicked in, I probably missed 1/5 of it. Which may not sound like much. But when you are ____ and you probably need to _____ it can be a real ____. It usually the vital words that are missing.

Most of the important words were so specific to the situation that I’d never heard them before, and even if I had, they certainly weren’t used regularly enough to remember. I tried to jot them down but couldn’t both listen and jot, so gave up learning new things and just tried to look intensely focused. Which I was, burning glucose at record speeds, trying to analyze hand gestures and facial features for additional meaning. But they were all pointing at my host and intense, while smiling politely and it made me all the more confused.

It was a meeting about their UNESCO proposal, asking for the Bali subak, or rice growing system, to be recognized as a World Heritage site. The English language proposal, all 550 whatever pages of it, had been sent back with revision requests, writen in Indonesian. It was a confusing document as it was; I read it twice stateside and still wasn’t quite sure what it meant. How difficult it must be for them, writing so much in English (with the help of English speaking students), and then having to revise in what seemed like minute ways.

Alit, my host at the meeting and also my primary contact here, had given me the revisions and the document about 10 minutes before the meeting and I spent about that long on the first two Indonesian paragraphs, trying to understand what changes were needed. He had asked for my help and showed me the proposal maps. My first response was, “Ooo, pretty colors.” Literally. I believe that’s what I said. My second response was, “Sure! I’ll help with the mapping and using the GPS!” And my third response was internal: “How the f* will I do that?” I’ve held a GPS device in my hands once. Never turned it on. Don’t know how to work it or even what the long numbers of coordinates mean. The sensation crept over me of being like Calvin, wrapping my crappy bat project in a fancy plastic cover, hoping to fool people.



Sitting here in my professional white shirt and white skin, studying for a graduate education and I felt like a complete sham. Come on, Margaret, you have to start understanding this meeting better. Dig in deeper. Make your mind understand them.

About ½ way through, a man directly across from us picked up the thread of conversation and doubled the pace. I understood two words with any purpose, “Tim baru” (sounds like Team Bah-ru) which meant to me, maybe New Team. Maybe). Two minutes through he looked directly at me and said something. Then he said it again, faster. I felt fear and panic wash through me, mostly down my nose. Then I can’t remember if he switched to English or if my brain suddenly caught on: “Can you explain all of this in English?” I was so shocked by the question I said I just understood, “New team.” Then he thrust his hands into the air and spoke louder, all the while smiling that strange polite smile. What is going on here? I got defensive in my head for a second: I understood that the proposal needed to be more complete and the tables needed to match the text. That’s something right? AND I speak English, the language in which the proposal was written. Don’t throw your hands in the air at me! But my fight died quickly as I realized pure determination doesn’t equal comprehension and speaker-to-speaker, I was only able to catch small increments of meaning.

Then, by the end, something revolutionary happened. I thought perhaps they were speaking in English. “We have to do the work now. Let’s make a list of all the places that need coordinates. Temples. Specific subak. Water sources. Then we’ll meet again on Friday and discuss the lists. It will be faster like this.”

I couldn’t believe that I had understood that much. It was as though my brain had undergone a rapid evolution and grew new neurons. Or at least new bridges between them. I confirmed my understanding with Alit at the end and realized my hands were shaking. Ate the veggie part of our boxed lunch to ease my nerves and asked the woman next to me how to the Indonesian fruit (Ma’af, Ibu. Bagaimana makan buah ini?” “Oh, Anda bukanya.”) You open it. She peeled it then pulled off two pieces, kind of like a hard orange and handed it all to me. I tried to continue the process but couldn’t find the fault lines. I felt like a monkey (Saya merasa seperti monyet) and eventually just ripped it apart, removing the seed. It was subtly sweet and a little dry. I asked it’s name (“Apa namanya?”) and forgot it right after she told me. Was it the first time I had eaten it? Yes. My first initiated conversatin in Indonesian that didn't revert to English. Fingers crossed, I hoped for many more.

Amed

is a long string of little towns, joined by a road that tops and dips through hills along the Northeastern coast of Bali. I came here on suggestion of two French girls I met last night who said, when snorkeling, they saw 1 ft diameter, bright blue starfish. They also said the beach was amazing. It's black sand/ black pebble and lined with boats. I'm not a fan of pebble beaches, but the views from the tops of the hills are incredible. There's the usual harassment of a tourist area and as a single female, I get a lot more of it. Men asking if I want to be with them, lots of motorbikes asking if I want a taxi, the shirtless ones doubling back asking if I'd just want it for free. The usual. I haven't seen a lot of it on this trip until this week. I am trying to remember how to not let it affect me. Next time I go out, I'll just take my own bike and avoid it all.

Speaking of, took my first long motorbike journey today- over three hours! My arse was plenty sore. But it was amazing. I knew I'd love driving a motorcycle and this scooter is a great way to start. It's well balanced and small without too much power. Everyone travels at a pretty slow speeds and are, in fact, excellent drivers. The best way to describe driving in Bali (and probably most of the world) is fluid. Sides of the road, passing lanes, red lights- they are all merely suggestions for the best way to move about. People flow up onto medians, sometimes sidewalks, shoulders, into oncoming traffic, between cars, whatever- and they are all keenly aware of who is around them. You never see someone on a cell phone or fiddling with the radio and, to date, I have neither seen a wreck or heard of one. I'm not the slowest driver on the road anymore but I'm not the fastest either and feel a certain comfort and confidence in moving with my fellow bikes. I do tend to follow the rules though and that's comforting in its own way too. Adding a bandana to deal with the endless exhaust doesn't hurt either. I feel like a bandit on the run!



I can feel the sun going down outside and that's like midnight coming for Cinderella when I am alone. I wish it didn't have to be that way but I am grateful for what can do. Here's to remembering how to be alone again...

annonymous

I am sitting at the least populated bar in Sanur, musicked by two guitarists, adverstised as from Sumatra. One of the baretenders is playing a small jimbay and there's a red faced expat woman, older, with a large ceamic flower by her ear. Even as I write this, we're all singing "Mrs. Robinson" but I can't bring myself to look up and engage. It's either down at this pad or over to my book. I have no excuse to be here except that they are playing guitar and I miss his. And I'm hoping for information on Sumatra (go to the city Beda and to the Lake Toba... or something like that).

I'm afraid of looking like a desperate white girl, here for attention, but if I forget that stereotype, it feels like a quiet corner of Austin, where I am annonymous and there's something unknown in the air, even if I'm feeling shy...

first day as an anthropologist

A friend of mine, while still in school for the trade, used to say, "I'm going to the little architect's room." I loved that- how brilliant to claim your passion in self-definition. Started using it myself. The little anthropologist's room. And today, for the first time, I felt like I could really apply it. My first day as an anthropologist.

Followed a professor from New Zealand and his wife up to an organic subak (a subak is a block of rice fields who work together and share the same water), the only one he knows of that is completely Balinese innovated, free from Western influence. And the farmer we were to meet, he said, was a good soul, a bright light. And a clear and blunt speaker- not common in the Balinese culture. At first he gave me directions to the farm but after some slight convincing, he admitted that he wanted to return himself, and okay, we could go together tomorrow. I think one of the greatest things I have learned on this trip is negotiation. I woke up early in anticipation, even though the meeting was not until 4pm.

We entered the farmer's family compound and were invited to a green mat on one veranda. I made sure to keep my feet covered and only pulled out a notebook when I saw the prof do the same. The farmer spoke about how he had just returned from giving gifts to a village upstream, as a thank you for them not cutting down the forests that kept his water clean. Then the professor introduced me as doing research- did I want to explain it myself, or should he?

Took the reigns and hoped my Indonesian made one lick of sense. The farmer seemed to understand immediately and talked about use of pesticides- when they started, how quickly the animals died, when they stopped, how long it took for animals to return. Okay, this is stuff that's only interesting to me, but it was GOLD, I tell you! GOLD. His daughter brought us three hot Balinese coffees and although I knew I'd be up till 3am if I drank it now, I accepted it gratefully. It was so much more delicious than the stuff I made for myself in the morning. Then he invited us to the fields themselves. Really?! Yes!!! We had to take the motorbikes again but he said we should leave our helmets there. Okay...

It was all dirt and rock road and I just followed their path as best I could. The first fields were two weeks shy of planning and he showed me where the worms burrowed. There was not much else though so we drove up the way to his family's field. We balanced dirt walls as the sky turned a burned pink, all three volcanos visible from his plot. Frogs were singing below us and a cow bellowed from its hut. All signs of an organic, healthy farm.

He pointed to holes in the wall where mice lived. Mice eat rice. Forest cats eat mice. And chickens. Balance. He kept using the word for Balance. You want mice that eat some of your rice so that the cats don't eat all your chickens. You don't have to kill off everything around you to be safe. If you give some of what you want, you can get back a lot more of what you need.

In the field we saw lots of bugs and creatures zooming about the quiet waters. He would stamp on the holding wall and gliding spiders would shoot out, chasing the pests that cause rice stalk borrow disease. With pesticides, all of these helpful creatures had died. It had taken 7 years for them to reach previous numbers. There were swimming grasshoppers people caught for sate and burrowing beetles, the larva of whom people ate. He scooped one from the water and we chased it around a small patch of grass with our hands. He pinned it under his finger and I caught it in my hand. Its little legs gripped at my palm but I suppressed all girl instinct to scream and shake it off, tilting it up to my face instead. A lot like a ladybug, without the spots. Its hard wings folded like the spine of a football (American football) over its back and it glowed brown with a hint of green. Kelipas. I let it back into the field and paused a second longer to feel the clean water swallowing the tips of my fingers, to breathe the way the sunset painted it all orange. He said in three weeks there would be many more and I could return to see all the animals.

My Indonesian is, at best, a bit like listening to a wordy song for the first time. You get the picture but miss the details. The professor helped translate some for me during the field inspection, but on the walk back, he discussed the volcanoes with his wife and I walked alone with the farmer. He pulled leaves off three trees and started to tell me about them. I caught that all were used in the fields in some way and one was used for pesticides. I missed all the rest. He re-explained it to the professor when we approached and I asked for a translation. The prof told me the same things I had understood myself and said the rest was unclear to him. He had been working there since the early 1990's and that somehow made me feel a lot better about myself. I'd return again with a native translator and try hard to get more meaning.

We popped back over the bumpy roads, something even a week ago I was scared to do. But it was not a choice now, not a luxury to ask whether I was able to do this or not. I had to. This was my dream and I'd do anything to live it.

Confidence, more than anything, is about forgetting and I barely remembered to doubt whether or not I was able... to drive the motorbike, to understand the farmers.

And research is about ups and downs. By the time I got back to town, I had quietly panicked about being able to write a thesis at all. What if the free lists were worthless? How was I going to gather analyzable data again? What on earth do I think I'm doing here!?

And in that confidence become panic, I realized: I had become an anthropologist. My dreams were dripping from my fingers and this moment was every ounce as beautiful I had ever hoped it would be. As the huge, full moon rose high over the rice fields on our last stretch home, I inhaled until my chest hurt, overwhelmed by the beauty, thanking the Universe for a life that could be as big and bright as that.

more polite shoes

“Do you have more polite shoes?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The flight is full and I can upgrade you to business class but you have put on more polite shoes.”

“Closed toe,” J offered.

I looked down at my feet in black Old Navy flip flops and felt kind of proud of their traveled look- tan, toenails a bit too long and haggled, a little dirt stuck to the sides. But I did get a pedicure in Thailand and I did wash them every night. The flip flops were still pretty clean- isn’t that polite? Then I thought of my other option- Asics, Duromax, lightly coated in rice field mud from our trek to a climbing spot, put away wet. They were covered in a towel to keep them away from the rest of my bag. But if they just wanted closed toes…

“Yes, I have polite shoes.”

Tore open my bag to retrieve them and a powerful smell hit me in the face. Ah, wet sneakers. The socks were caked in mud and shoved inside. I discretely slipped the socks back into my backpack and undid the shoes’ soaked laces. Wow, they stunk. After getting them on, I looked at J’s feet- too big muddy sandals, his smashed toes. Nothing had been asked of him.

“What about your shoes?”

He flashed me his bragging child grin and I just narrowed my eyes.

“I hate being a girl.”

“Good thing you are. I’m not into boys.”

“Wonderful. Then I hate the double standard.” I had been noticing a lot of that lately- being passed over for a male traveling partner in business transactions and conversation. It was maddening but luckly foreign.

My hands reeked from the polite muddy sneakers. I put my flip flops into my bag and hoped she didn’t notice the nastiness. We learned we couldn’t get our “special” veggie meals in Business class either but I was happy to skip it.

We boarded the plane on final call- my shirt is a little dirty and on its 3rd wearing, frayed bra strap flapping on my shoulder. J’s shirt is wet in the front from washing out a stain in an airport sink. I gave up on my hair about day 2 of the trip and had just crammed a hat on my head this morning. My legs are peeling from a burn and there are zits on my chin from endless sweating. J’s beard is at stage itch; he’s proudly holding a beat up guitar in his hand. A farang (foreigner) woman watched us come through the special first/ business class door with surprise and disgust. J started a pillow fight when we sat down and we debated whether to order champagne or French red wine (or both!). I can smell myself in this shirt… or maybe that’s my polite shoes We’re a little out of place.


("hum... red wine or champagne?" "excuse me, stewardess...")

Looking closer though, I can see that we’re not the only pieces lacking perfection. The cup tray is dirty and my arm rest is cracked. The fold-out tray table sags in the middle and the buttons for the TV have been worn completely through. It’s an older plane and except for the extra room, sweet service and alcohol choices in real glasses, this class is a mental thing, a head trip. We’ve taken a host of photos trying to show our snooty side, but we know we don’t fit in here. Yes, we come across as a little rude.



But looking down at my endless leg room, I’m happy to see that at least my shoes are polite.

slow boat to Laos

On a slow boat to interior Laos. It's our second and last day on this wooden ship- it's raining and there's mist and fog on the mountain trees. I am by the front door, both a good and bad spot. It's in the hustle-bustle pulse center- people crowded around to take photos, staff climbing in from around the side to fix fly away rain flaps. I am on a pile of muddy shoes, my rear guarded by a "sweet love bear pillow", a pad bought on shore to comfort travelers. But to compensate for the mud and bustle, I am only two feet above the thick water, completely immersed in the scene. The raindrops are hitting in rapid sequines on the river blanket. There are so many hidden currents, swirling under the surface, creating whirlpools and water fault lines.

The scene along the sides of the river, if viewed in still lighting, never really changes- hills covered in lush forest of alternating dark and light greens, displaying shale-like black rock for coastline and occasional tan/grey sandbank, the whole thing dotted with villages and illegally deforested patches, burned, sad. But with a shifting of the sun, the picture changes- trees take on a bluish tint, become part of a cloud, then clear again, glowing orange, becoming ominous at night. The rocks look more severe, then softer with sunset light, almost inviting you to nap there.

It's like our moods sometimes, I think- ever present and steady is our inner being- lovely lush and lively. Then the light shifts and the scene changes, highlighting some features and masking others. Blue, green, orange- we radiate to the light. Even our quiet radiates. Does it change our world to know this? To know that under the sun and mist, we are always that forest standing, that shoreline of shale? Do the night and day then become less significant, not inflicting change but only the view?

I wonder, sometimes, if this is at the heart of things...

guest author- slingshot

And now I have a slingshot...

This would have likely helped me to scare off a killer monkey on routeup the 1,237 steps to a mountain top temple housing a huge golden Buddha sitting calmly in lotus position. However, there was no calm when, as the steepest section of the climb appeared, so appeared the renegade monkey, likely trained as an assassin, with teeth barred & ominously approaching. Staunch with confidence and poised to destroy us, he hissed & made his most "evilest" face possible while intermittently posturing each step that he took forward in attempts to try to make us flinch - and it worked at first as we let out howls of..."holy! we are being attacked by a 2 foot tall killer halfway up this steep mountain with no one else in sight" - not even a banana to hold him off!

And so, with no sling shot readily available to pull out of my utility belt and fire around to scare him off and save the day, I had to rely on my other skills- mostly that of being loud and moving my arms & legs in crazy ways to get attention. So I began. I took a deep breath to center myself, held my body upright, and began yelling out deep monkey sounds myself, brandshing my arms & legs in a way that could only be considered jive Kung Fu. All in attempts to meet the challenge of the killer monkey and counter his insidious plan to destroy us. He saw all of this and appeared completely baffled for a few moments before stepping up and performing some jive Kung Fu of his own. I parried with more. He responded. I countered. He replied,"touche" in his monkey language & finally came at me with all that he had - a finale of sorts. I felt humbled, but regrouped & unleashed the loudest, most ridiculous exhibition of jive Kung Fu that the world has ever seen. And with this, and only with all of this, he bowed hishead in retreat and scurried backwards into the trees & jungle sanctuary a defeated primate.

In the end, I believe it was a move I like to call the "noodle kick" that saved the day and freed us from imminent jungle destruction at the hands of this renegade assassin. Little was known before taking this journey up to the mountain top temple that it would entail a passport into insanity.

AND MY PASSPORT?

It just arrived from a one week vacation from my possession, subtly left behind in Southern Thailand beach town (Ao Nang) with host of our guesthouse bungalow- it was exchanged as collateral for a few days use of baby blue 100cc motorbike. Upon returning it, our host was not there & the day or so in between cast the passport's absence insignificant- and how could it not?!!

Zooming all around a peninsula jutting into the Gulf of Aden with random fruit stands, golden Buddhist temples pervasively dotting the landscape, and roadsigns completely written in beautiful Thai script-more an expression of art than a human collection of letters placed together for the simple task of forming words.

And so, with these beautiful scribbles on every sign we sped along not truly knowing where we were going but into an undiscovered piece of earth on this planet containing new vistas & visions of a world alwaysworth exploring. So as I lay in this hammock, now in Northern Thailand, swaying to the beat of the wind, surrounded by huge green bamboo extending 30 feet into the sky, and stretching out a newslingshot that was given to me by our friends in Chang Mai (N.Thailand) yesterday, I can't help but feel that this is truly that state in which I feel most at home- like I was just shot out of a slingshot. So slungshot up to Pai (small artist-type community in N.Thailand close to Laos boarder) after bouncing around the beaches and islands of Southern Thailand, including HUGE Full Moon party on an island inthe Gulf of Thailand (10,000 people dancing and celebrating life all up & down the beach to shake-your-body music until dawn) and a couple of stops in Bangkok's perpetual neon-light insanity; I am elated to have gotten my passport back (yesterday mailed to me in Chang Mai), a new slingshot (drenched in metaphors) and preparing to zoom up into Laos & board a 2 day slow boat on the Mekong River to take us to the interior of the country. First, however, we will board our motorbike & thoroughly explore Pai (pie), go to the surrounding mineral hotsprings, get an hour-long $5 dollar message, rock out to some live music tonight & MAYBE make it back to our $12 dollar/night huge,beautiful bungalow before the sky turns from starlight to crystal blue.

With ambitions also to play guitar on stage again like 2 nights ago in Chang Mai bar with dancing friends all around, rock climb some more challenging routes like on the beaches of S. Thailand, go surfing the perfect breaks in Indonesia in a few weeks, and hopefully not have to defend my life from ferocious jungle beasts intent on my utter destruction- although that could be brilliant as well; after all I do have a brand new slingshot (drenched in metaphors) to add to my utility belt now...

Yaaaaahooooooooo!!!

~Jefferson

some favorite photos so far

A warm up climb at Railey Beach

Our reward after hard work- one of the most beautiful beaches I've ever seen

A holy monkey
First motorbike adventure

Library in our current guesthouse in Pai, Thailand

addiction

I have this awfully powerful addiction. The kind that completely controls you when a craving hits. At home, it's unnoticeable because you can find it everywhere. The good stuff, you know? And everyone enjoys it. But when traveling, the addiction unvails itself and creates for some strang situations and sensations. It can get you in to trouble sometimes.

You know what I'm talking about: Mexican food.

It hit today in Ko Tao, suddenly, on the beach. I couldn't stop thinking of corn chips and cheese. Salsa even crossed my mind a few times. I think it was from spotting the words in a travel guide that morning. Brought it up to J and he joined in the cravings. We had to find some. Walked over a mile to town, checking every possible menu on the way and after a thorough search, returned to the only restaurant really offering anything labled Mexican food. Emphasize the word labled.

I don't know why, but of all cuisines in the world, Mexican is the hardest to get right. In Hawaii, the huevos rancheros were covered in pizza sauce. In Bali, I cannot even describe the flavors a British man invented for his "tacos"- mostly because they were awful. It's always a gamble, but I never understand why. Tomatoes. Onions. Garlic. Cilantro if you can find it. And if you don't have jalapenos, just something spicy. That's it. It's simple.

But this menu looked promising. The veggie tacos boasted sour cream, salsa and cheese in crispy corn shells. Yes! That's the language. They were expensive- about $6. Considering most meals are about $1, this was outrageous. But addictions are controlling and the risk had to be taken.

No. No, it was not Mexican food. The shells were corn and they were nice. There was a small pinch of cheese. But the filling- are you ready for this? Was made of apples, tomatoes and onions soak in balsalmic vinegar. In balsamic vinegar. The sour cream was a mystery- maybe creme fraiche? And the salsa was, like in Bali, indescribable. Except for "gross", maybe. The flavors, by themselves, *might* have worked, but the whole package was frightening and sent me back to the guesthouse to lay down for a spell. Me and my now empty pocketbook.

Mexican food outside its origin and the South simply does not exist. I have learned this lesson 100 times. Why does it not stick? Ah, the power of addiction.

behind

The difficulty of keeping a travel blog is feeling forever behind in writing it. It's a tough balance between communicating and experiencing I think. So this is an empty entry; just a brief list of experiences thus far:

1) rock climbing on the famous Railay beach and leaving with beautifully bruised and cut knees. Healing them in the ocean while swimming under huge, multi-colored limestone cave outcroppings.

2) nearly being attacked by a relatively small monkey, making a combination hiss, growl screaming noise with my hands like claws by my face. J taking over and literally pulling out karate moves (not touching the monkey). And the monkey retreating.

3) climbing 1237 steps to a temple, which honestly doesn't sound like much. Except some where as tall as my lower leg, it was over 90 degrees and 80 percent humidity. And thinking I'd do it again today just to see the view one more time.

4) streets of Bangkok.

5) a daring game of 31 whereas the lowest hand has to do whatever the highest hand demands. There was underwear burned from the tops of trees, and midnight baptisms in the ocean. J was knighted by a Brit and I reinacted Neandertal surfing with a Frenchman. Brilliant.

6) learning that the beer I drank during most of my last visit is preserved with phramadahyde (or however that's spelled).

7) (willing) sleeping in a bungalow with a large spider in the toilet and a nice body coverage of little black ants in the morning. It has a great porch with lots of sun!

Was going to do 10 but I am itching to get ready for tonight and whatever happens in its folds. The forever balance of where your feet are now, and what waits around the bend!

toothpast clearance

Never, NEVER in my life have I seen someone get through security with an oversized gel or liquids container. Everytime, no matter what the product, it gets chucked. But not with Jefferson. They ran his bag twice and pulled out a 5.5 oz of brand new Tom's toothpaste. Not cheap and not something you'd find overseas. I felt immediately bummed for him. Then what happens? The man reads the ounce total to J out loud and tells him to keep it at 3.2 oz or less next time, then puts the toothpaste BACK in the bag. That was it. I was amazed. Magic abounds.

shoving off

I love that image- like putting your foot on the edge of a dock and giving your boat a good shove, off into the waters. I'm in the San Francisco airport, waiting for my travel partner, and charging every piece of electrical equipment to tie me over till a converter comes along. We shove off at 1:20am, May 31st. It doesn't feel real yet. Discombobulating- so in the moment that the future is just a skeletal narrative of location. And I like it that way. Most travel daydreams are so far from realities lived, you wonder why you ever spent time on them... unless they are escape from the now. I haven't needed that at all this year.

Spent a little over two weeks in Dallas with friends and family, filled to the brim with laughter and love. My parents have a one bedroom apartment in downtown and we cohabitated happily there, even taking in an occassional extra sleeper. Sign of harmony. Details spared, it was satisfying, gratifying and a beautiful treasure I am departing with today!

Now, though, now my feet are on the neutral floor of an airport walkway and my mind is pulling its webs into the patter of transient feet and rolling wheels, to the 30lb pack by my elbow. My stomach is full of questionable sushi and I might take on another early evening cup of coffee. Sleep time will not matter for the next few days as my body figures out where the sun is.

This is it. This is the rambling beginning of shifting paradigms and stretching to make room for new. I have no idea what to expect, except for two hopes:

1) new friends and new hearts
2) old friends and familiar hearts.

so with that I have to say, emphatically- thank you for being here with me. And please, keep me updated on your life too, as we travel through the next couple of months in our lives- we are always on a journey!

PS best ways to stay in touch- comments here and emails here: marg.shug@blogspot.com

Denver International Airport

Thought since I was here, I’d try to ask Lost and Found directly about a bag I left last month. They never seemed to check very thoroughly when I was on the phone. I set my mind to “open” trying to feel the good vibes I felt in Cancun when I recovered an iPod that had been missing for a week. I just knew walking into that airport office that it was in there. They first handed me a pink 8 gig, nicer than my own.

“No, I’m sorry. That one’s not mine.”

“I think it’s the only one back there. I’ll look again.”

I felt so calm and sure, and after 5 minutes of her looking, there it was, wrapped in duct tape, holding the earphones tight to the body. Perfect timing.

This time, the feeling was different- positive but not sure. Walking up to the airport information desk, there were three women gathered around, chatting and giggling. The one up front turned around and yelled, “Ukulele!”

She sauntered towards me and took it from my hands.

“Do you play?”

I thought she seems very excited not to.

“Yes, from my childhood!” eyes lit up, teeth showing.

She checked the tuning, singing “My Dog Has Fleas” then began strumming it confidently, loudly, fingers moving without looking, her hips swaying side to side as she hummed to herself. I didn’t know the song but I loved watching her play. Her eyes opened and she looked at me directly-

“What about you? Do you play?”

“Not very well- I could never quite get the strumming like you do. I’m bringing it home for my mom.”

“Oh! Is she an old lady like me?”

“Ha! Um, well, she wants to learn how to play too.”

“Great!”

Her friends started to request songs, but she said she could only remember “Isn’t she lovely?” She played for a few more seconds and handed it back to me. I couldn’t help but notice some of the dust had been knocked free from under the strings. Her friend chastised her for stealing it from me, said I was lucky to get it back, and asked,

“What was your original question?”

“I don’t remember! You just totally made my morning.”

The bag wasn’t in Lost and Found- if it had ever been, they would have gotten rid of it two weeks ago. It was okay though. I was able to let go of that material hope and hold instead to that spicy moment, some foreshadowing of all the adventure and new people and experiences, not two weeks away, but starting now.