My Relationship Status with America: Complicated

Now that we’ve been reunited for a few months, America, it’s time to head back to Indonesia and there are some things I’d like to tell you.  I hope you don't take it personally that I'm away from you so much.  I do miss you when I'm gone, and can't wait to get back again. But when I am back, I feel, well, conflicted.  If “absence makes the heart grow fonder” it can also make the mind grow forgetful.  There are things about you I forget when I am overseas and when I’m back with you, I remember the not-so-good.  You also change, and I am always surprised by that.  I assume I’ll return and I’ll pick up right where we left off, but no, you’ve gone and changed on me.  And I know I’ve changed on you. 

I’ve made some observations about you this summer, which was spent in Washington, Idaho, Oregon, Colorado, Georgia, and Florida.  For one, you are beautiful – I never love you more than when I’m flying in on that initial landing and I first glimpse your shore.  This time it was San Francisco at sunrise, and low clouds were hovering over hills and the bay was illuminated.  Then the next flight took me by Mount Hood on a gorgeous clear blue sky day.  The next few weeks took me by your majestic Rocky Mountains, and golden wheat fields, and winding rivers, and oh, it makes me so proud to be one of your peeps.

Another thing I notice about you when I’m here is that you are convenient – so convenient that I sometimes forget how to do simple things, like pump gas or check of a store or wash my own vegetables.  In fact, you are so convenient that sometimes I suspect that you want me to be fat.  You seem happiest when I’m bellying up to a buffet, or supersizing my meal or stopping for buy-one-get-one-free Krispy Kremes.  How can I resist a grilled cheese doughnut, or Bunny Tracks ice cream, or a Greek burger at my favorite Savannah restaurant? You make it so easy to eat junky food that you must WANT me and all the rest of us to be fat and happy. 

Somebody stop me, it's a grilled cheese doughnut

And yet you also seem to want me to be fit and beautiful – at least that’s the message I’m getting from commercials (the ones that don’t want me to eat) and from a dermatologist who suggested some filler for my “smile” lines.

The American dilemma: Lose weight or eat cheeseburgers???

 

You feel safe.  Seatbelts, TSA, patrolling police officers – all give me a sense of safety, even if it’s just an illusion.  And sometimes it is an illusion because there are times that you feel scary. In the two months I’ve been back there have been numerous shootings and car accidents in our area.  I am more convinced than ever that there is no “safe” place in this world, even if I do sometimes feel safer with you.

You have issues. The Charleston shootings and subsequent fallout over the Confederate flag, the recent Supreme Court decisions, and the circus leading to the upcoming presidential election reflect a nation divided. The freedom to disagree without persecution is something to be celebrated, but when disagreements become hateful or violent, then America, it’s time to change.

My side of the family, loving our homeland

Having said all that, you are my homeland, and I love you.  I will continue to return to you. I will pray for you. I will watch with interest this next year as different presidential candidates duke it out over who will love you best and work hardest for you. You and I will both continue to change, and no doubt I will continue to grapple with my complicated feelings for you.  Having lived for almost 14 years in another country, I see you through different eyes, which is a gift I wish all your people could experience. Until next time.

The List

A friend recently remarked to me: “I have no idea how you prepare to go back.”  She wondered how I knew what I needed, how much I needed to buy, how was it all packed?

I informed her that I have a List. 

When David saw the List recently, he remarked: “That’s not a list.  That’s a mind map.”  True enough.

The whole summer, the List hangs over me like a swarm of Georgia gnats that I just can’t get away from.  I know I need to do the shopping, yet I dread it.

Here’s what usually happens (fellow expats, tell me if this happens to you, too).  When I’m in Indonesia, I think of things that I need or would like to have.  So I start the List.  As the time for our departure for the U.S. nears, the List grows, usually into multiple pages and categories.  Items include the usual: sunscreen, new swim gear, grits, spices, pepperoni, gifts for the kids, clothes.

Then, when I get to America and I make that initial trip to Wal-Mart or Target, I get Shopper’s Paralysis.  The sticker shock, the options available, and the sheer size of most American stores do me in.  Did you know the average woman is now faced with a staggering number of choices when it comes to underwear? I was in Crisis Mode in the underwear department of Target. Unable to decide, I finally just closed my eyes and grabbed some. 

There’s also the size and weight of items to consider.  “Will it fit in a suitcase? And how will it survive baggage handlers?” I ask myself as I size up a possible purchase. 

Overwhelmed by the variety, prices, and size of things I start to talk myself out of whatever purchases Indonesian Natalie had convinced herself she needed.  “Do you really need pecans, face lotion, lunch containers, etc” I ask myself, as I wander the store aisles.  Most of my list will eventually be bought, but some things (an iced tea dispenser, a zipline, my Complete Works of Shakespeare that I try to bring back every time) won’t be making the cut.

Then there are those items that are not on the List, but I see it in the store and convince myself I must have it.  Impulsive Purchase #1: A beeswax candle that melts and becomes lotion.  It’s heavy AND breakable.  What was I thinking?!

The List leads to the Pile

I have been tempted to say, forget the List.  Just go to America, enjoy it while you’re there, and when you get back to Indonesia, just make do with what you can get there.  And I could do that, and be just fine.  But as you can see from the number of items checked off the List, I haven’t taken that step yet.  Maybe next trip.

                

Adventures in Shopping

In just a few weeks, our family will be heading to the U.S. for a short summer furlough.  After a challenging two years that included a move, various community crises, noise adjustments, aging, dealing with inebriated people, adjusting to D's new travel schedule, and a busy teaching schedule, I am feeling super ready for a break.  One of the things I always enjoy and look forward to is the U.S. shopping experience.  I can't wait to shop in a climate-controlled, clean grocery store that has everything I need IN ONE PLACE.  Or to go clothes-shopping and find clothes that actually fit me.  Luxury.

It's a far cry from the shopping I do here, which is adventurous at best.  I usually get groceries from the local pasar (open market) plus several other stores and the experience is spread out over several days.  Shopping for clothes is very hit or miss, as sizes are different and we just don't have petite Asian bodies.  Recently during a jeans-shopping excursion with my daughter, we couldn't find anything longer than 28. 

And yet, despite the shopping challenges, we continue to eat well and to accumulate stuff.  It's embarrassing.  Today we were able to download some of our excess at the community Barang Sale. [barang is one of those great Indonesian words that doesn't have an exact English translation; we use it to mean "stuff," "things," "junk," and "jive," as in, "Carter, get your barang off the coffee table."] The sale is held at the kids' school, and the local expat community, along with local friends and workers, turn out in force.  Our goal was to leave with less than we brought, because inevitably the kids (ahem, and not just the kids) see other people's barang they want.  

The hordes waiting to get in

 As my friend, who was manning a table next to mine, philosophically mused, "It's not so much a sale as it is a missionary swap."  We sold lots of clothes, and came home with two surfboards.  

Over the past few months I've fallen into a Saturday morning pasar shopping routine with my friend Libby. The pasar is not the best-smelling place, and it can be rather warm, and if you're claustrophobic you would hate it.  Other than that, it's the best place to find fresh food. I took my camera along last week and got these shots:

 

This lady has a sweet smile.  She usually adds in a few extra tomatoes to my bag.

 

Did I mention it was smelly?  This is one of the contributors: dried fish.

Below are two ladies selling cones of sago, which are cooked into a thick porridge called papeda, a local dish with the consistency of glue.

This is where plastic bags go to die.

 

This is my chicken man.  Note the blue money lying right next to the entrails.  Lovely.  He cuts up the chicken however I want it.  If it's a big order and he can't do the math in his head to figure out the cost, he uses his finger to "write" in the chicken juice on the table.

 

I've never actually bought one of the bundles below, but I think they're cool.  Little bunches of the spices, chiles, and leaves you need to make a certain dish.

This is my coconut lady.  For about 30 cents you can buy a small bag of freshly grated coconut. Hello, coconut cream pie.

 

This photo shows some of the produce available: guavas, bananas, corn, pineapples, cucumbers, and jackfruit.

In addition to sago, sweet potatoes are a staple of many locals' diets.

I love greens.  For about 80 cents a bunch, you can get the green of your choice.  I'm partial to the type in the middle.

 

Just bought your veggies and suddenly decide you need to get your pants hemmed?  No problem.  There's a tailor at the pasar.

 

Libby and I usually hire a guy with a wheelbarrow to follow us and help schlep our stuff around.

 The rest of the pasar experience is continued at home, where I spend a few hours putting everything away.  It's a lot of work, but I'm thankful for what we can get. 

When My Husband Travels

As of this May, my husband will have made four trips to America on MAF-related business since we were last stateside in ’13.

Four times he’s traveled to the other side of the world, and oceans and land masses have separated us.

I know there are men and women who do this ALL THE TIME for their work, be it military assignments or airline jobs or international intrigue or whatever.  And my hat is off to them.  I feel like such a wimp when David’s gone for just two or three weeks at a time. I can’t imagine a six-month or year-long deployment.

There are different stages I typically go through during a separation.

1.       I am Superwoman. 
2.       I am Emotional.

3.       All Hell Breaks Loose.
4.       We Eat Junky Meals.
5.       I Rally.
6.       Resentment Toward Everyone Who Has a Spouse At Home.
7.       I Stop Counting the Days.
8.       A Minor Crisis Occurs.
9.       I Start Counting the Days.

 I am currently at Stage 9, with only one day to go. 

I have a wonderful group of friends who are awesome at helping out when D is gone.  They have us over for meals, let me cry on their shoulders, pray with me, go to the spa with me (it’s a sacrifice, to be sure), and help put out fires (both literal and figurative).

As amazing as my friends are, I still miss David.  I don’t know if I can accurately describe the feeling, but I almost have to block the thought of him being on one side of the globe and me on the other, because it weirds me out – like thinking about eternity and how long it is. I miss him because he is half of my heart, half of my life – our shared experiences, our children, our hard times, our inside jokes; those are ours alone, and when he’s not here, I feel it.  I guess it’s reassuring to know that after almost 19 years of marriage, I miss him when he’s not here.  That’s a good thing, right?

It seems like I learn something new each time he travels – about myself, about him, about the way we interact, about my kids. 

Here are several lessons that come to mind:

1.       Sleep.  This seems so obvious, but I’m always cutting my sleep short when David’s gone.  I piddle away the evening hours, putting off the inevitable – climbing into bed (which sometimes has Zoe and 17 stuffed pandas in it), closing my eyes, praying the “big one” doesn’t happen that night (one of my fears when he’s gone is that an earthquake will happen).  If I don’t sleep enough, it only makes life for all those around me – but mostly me – worse.

2.       Accept help if you need it.  This can be hard for me, because I’d like to think I can handle it all on my own.  But when your stove is on fire, or your electricity isn’t behaving, or your kids need you to be in two places at once, it’s okay to ask for help.
 3.       Have little treats to look forward to.  Chocolate.  A tv show. A hoarded stroopwaffel.  A cream bath. Enjoy without guilt. Have treats for the kids, too.  Their main treat is to take turns sleeping in my bed.  The second treat is to (gasp!) eat supper in front of the tv.  It’s the little things.

4.       Keep your routine very, very simple.  Other people could probably do more, but not me.  I pare it down to the basics, which right now is: my kids, my teaching, our food.  And believe me, it’s enough.

5.       Remember that he misses you, too.  I have to remind myself, he’s in America working – not going to Disney World, not relishing trips to Target, not partying every night.  He’s working, and he’s missing us. Try not to make him feel too guilty about perusing the cereal aisle or enjoying a burger.

6.       Go easy during the Change of Command.  This has been my hardest lesson.  The Change of Command is those few days when he’s just back – we’re excited to be together again and that lasts for a blissful 24 hours or so, then reality hits and I’m saying stupid things like, “But I don’t lock the doors that way, and I’ve been locking them for the past few weeks just fine.”  Yeah.  Don’t do that.  Better to slowly hand the reins back over than to shove them in his face, or forget to hand them over at all.  
7. Don't dwell on the "what if's." This also has been a hard lesson.  I have an overactive imagination that can dream up all sorts of horrible scenarios. What if something happens to us? To him? What if a tree falls on the house? (It's windy season and this scenario is very likely.) In the Bible study I attend, we've been learning about putting the correct ending on those "what if's" and that is: God.  I cannot anticipate or control every situation that might come up while D is away, and I have to trust the LORD with the outcome.

Okay - enough lessons for tonight.  One more sleep!

 

What to Do About the Drunks?

This post has been brewing in me for a while now (no pun intended).  It’s about the drunk young men who terrorize the area where we live known as Pos 7. 

I used to find drunks humorous, or at the least, mildly entertaining.  Otis Campbell on “The Andy Griffith Show” cracked me up, the way he’d stumble in to the Mayberry jail, let himself in, and sleep off his binge on a lacy pillow tatted by Aunt Bea.  If only the drunks I met in real life were like Otis.

 

Drunk dude passed out on our driveway

Instead, they’re mostly angry and unpredictable.  Sometimes they’re so drunk they can’t even stay upright as they totter across the road.  The worst is when they’re angry, clutching rocks or waving sticks and threatening to hit you or your vehicle if you don’t give them money.

My fellow Pos 7-ites and I sometimes exchange text messages with warnings, like the morning traffic or weather report: “Expect a few drunks at the T in the road, heavily intoxicated, should taper as the morning goes on and they finally pass out.”

Once, two drunken teenagers on a motorbike chased me in my car up my driveway then stood outside the car yelling at me.  I was so shaky I could hardly hold my phone to call for help.

A few days ago, in the middle of the day, a drunk young man came into our yard and attempted to steal a motorcycle helmet.  David was able to chase him off, but it’s hard for me not to think, what if David hadn’t been home?  What would I have done?

Even now, as I write this, I hear an inebriated man singing his lungs out down the hill from our house.

The reasons for the drunkenness are multi-layered.  Lack of education.  Lack of work.  A feeling of hopelessness.  Peer pressure.  

And there’s no AA.  There’s no rehab.  There are churches galore, but they don’t seem to know what to do.  There are families who cower in fear of their drunken loved one – a son, brother, husband – and wish they knew how to help.  David has had conversations with some parents, and they seem utterly hopeless.

They make me at once angry and sad and frustrated.  We try to joke about it.  But truly, no one who’s had an angry drunk man lunging at their car thinks it’s even one bit funny.  And for those who saw my “Let it go” video this summer where I sing the line “the drunks never bother me, anyway,” you need to know that was me poking fun at myself, because the drunks very much do bother me.

I don’t want to live in fear.  Nor do I want to turn a blind eye to this huge problem or adopt an “I just want to be left alone” attitude.  But I honestly don’t know what to do.  

So there it is.  What do we do? How do we become part of the solution?

Would you join me in praying for the families affected by the drunks?  For the churches?  For those of us who live here and long for this to be a safe place? And for the drunks?

40

If the blog seems to have a more mature timbre to it, it should.  I'm now 40, and as of this weekend, so is my husband.

40!  It just doesn't seem possible.  I've been dreading leaving my 30s, which were awesome.

I think I've been dreading it because of the memory I have of my mother turning 40.  She had a terrible bout of the flu the week before her birthday.  One night while she was sick, she got up, passed out, and gashed her head, resulting in a midnight trip to the E.R.  A few days later it was her birthday,  and I can see the photo in my mind's eye - my brothers and I gathered around our mom, who is sporting a tired face and a head wound.  I hope I gave her a nice present that year, but seeing as I was a preteen goofball, the chances are good that I didn't.

Not "the" photo, but same era

Now, I know her appearance in that photo had nothing to do with being 40, but my subconcious has held on to the idea of "40 = tired and wounded."  And I'm happy to report that the Big Day arrived and it felt normal.  Not old.  Not wounded.  I spent a lovely day with my five favorite people in the Big City, doing some of my favorite things - eating good food, and sitting on a beautiful beach.  Then -to take advantage of being in the big city - we did one of my most unfavorite things - shopping for jeans. (Grace: why can't I find jeans long enough? Me: Because you're a giantess living in Asia, my dear.)

After pondering 40 for a while I came to the conclusion that it feels about right. We're past the little kid years and firmly planted in the middle years with kids in elementary school and high school.  
I still play basketball (more than I ever did as a junior varsity Jenkins High School Warrior Bench Warmer), I watch cartoons, I love candy, I like comics, I listen to whatever music my teens do.  I Just Dance.  That all makes me feel young, and like I couldn't possibly be older than 26.  But then, there's the side of me that seems a bit old, if not old-fashioned, the side of me that likes to take naps, read Jane Austen and Charles Dickens, and resist new technology. I took an online quiz that said I was 64.  David says I was born a hundred years too late.

So maybe 40 is about right.

In other news, we sent our two high schoolers off on the annual Outdoor Education trip this week.  They're deep in the interior of Papua now, serving the people of the Kosarek area in a variety of ways: water storage projects, kids' clubs, HIV-AIDS awareness programs, and medical clinics.  Grace left not feeling well, and she was a bit nervous about the whole thing.  Carter - this being his third OE - was hyped about the trip.  David got to fly them in and see them off.

I struggled with saying goodbye to them.  Each small goodbye like this feels like a warm-up, a rehearsal for the BIG goodbye that looms in the not-too-distant future for our family.  Carter graduates from high school next year and will be moving back to the U.S., and it is a scary thought to ponder, him on one side of the globe, and us on the other.

The updates we're getting are very positive - kids are healthy, they're vaccinating people against measles, hiking to other villages, doing work projects, just all kinds of cool stuff.  Hopefully in my next post I'll have some of their stories and photos to share.