Emily's blog

Hustlin'

"Yes? You need taxi? Cheap price!" a young man darts into my path, smiling and nodding. I shake my head no.

He persists, stepping closer, though not in a threatening manner.  "Maybe tomorrow?"

"No, thank you," I reply, sidestepping him.

The main roads of Ubud are like a video game whereby the contestant must sidestep taxi drivers, women holding babies, their palms outstretched for money, and persistent salespeople hawking wares that are, indeed, made in Indonesia. Like any other tourism infested "developing" province, Bali is simultaneously beautiful and downtrodden, rich and poor, vibrant and decomposing in all manner of ways. Our days in Bali reflect the complexities and contradictions, forcefully displaying the dichotomy with each and every step we take.

At around seven am, Kadek, the houseboy at Puri Cantik, arrives at our teak door with a tray of the best coffee I have ever tasted. There are no french presses here; the fragrant, freshly roasted grounds intermingle freely with the coffee saturated water, producing a thick, almost grainy consistency and a robust flavor that hardly compares to anything Starbucks could attempt to reproduce. He looms over our shoulders as we stir in our milk, and asks us if we’d like fruit.

Kadek has taken on the role of the loyal servant in the Adam Sandler flick, Mr. Deeds, as he stealthily appears at random, and frequently stands and watches us as we eat breakfast. We practice English with him and politely refuse his best efforts to fill us with coffee or tea at all hours of the day. As Kadek disappears down the marble and stone staircase to the outdoor kitchen below, Maggie arches an eyebrow and says, "very sneaky sir." I laugh and look out over the courtyard.

Dewi’s homestay is arguably the best in Ubud. It doesn’t have a swimming pool, but it has a rustic charm and personality that surpasses any tangible amenity that a hotel could have. A bubbling fountain adorned by the natural growth of Bali’s finest flowers sits sedately in the center of the courtyard, flanked by two stories of housing, mainly open air and brimming with teak and earth toned stucco and stone. The feel is decidedly well kept and strategically decorated, yet homey at the same time. In the distance, red terra cotta roof tops and rice fields freckle the land scape, bursts of color that Palau lacks filling my eyeline as I sip coffee at the decidedly hand made teak table.

After finishing a leisurely breakfast of delicately cut fresh fruit and omelettes, Maggie and I walk to the main road in Ubud. Once out of the comfort of Dewi’s homestay, where one is easily insulated from solicitation and poverty, Ubud seems to come alive in its true form.

Passing a painfully thin dog with patches of dry, scaly skin ambling along the side of the road, Maggie looks at me sadly.

"It’s so easy to exist in a bubble in these places, to stay in nice hotels and to never really look down, you know? But when you do, you see that so much of this is for us tourists, and that it’s not real," she says, gesturing to the mangy dog panting next to her.

It’s becoming a pattern...walk down the road, take a right, past the row of taxi drivers, no thank you no thank you no thank you, no, not tomorrow...past the tiny shops filled with duplicitous artworks and hastily carved picture frames, no, no thank you, I would not like a painting today, no, yes, it is very beautiful...past the boys on the corner selling tickets to see Balinese traditional dancing...no, thank you, not today, maybe another time...

We joke together that the theme song for Bali should be Rick Ross’ ode to hustlin’. Bali is beautiful in a way that other places aren’t. It’s vibrance and spirituality are palpable, interwoven through every aspect of life here. The air smells of the pungent prayer incense, and the people welcome you into their spaces in a way that is far more earnest than any shopkeeper I’ve encountered before. Although you can see the effects of tourism on their society, from the surplus garbage accumulating in the sewers to the stark contrast between the beggars on the street and the rick tourists who sidestep them on their way to get a massage, the Balinese seem genuine in their effort to welcome you to their world.

The shopkeepers also seem genuinely interested in welcoming your wallet to their world. Maggie and I quickly learn that the phrase "best price?" can take you far in Ubud, and that haggling politely is an acquired skill.

We thumb through woven batik prints and examine smooth wood bowls, holding them up to the women who run the stores, initiating the process. Typically they are flanking you from the beginning. You can feel their breath on you as they mentally take stock of every item you linger by.

"You like green? I have lots of nice green, very good price, look, look how nice," they say, holding up swatches of fabric.

"Did you make?" I ask, or "made here?"

A frown. "No, but I know the people. They are my ... cousin. Yes, cousin, and the fabric made in Java. But close. Indonesia."

I nod. "How much?"

A smile. "For you, only 100,000." The currency rate was approximately 9300 rupiah to one US Dollar. To say you were getting anything here at a bargain was a gigantic understatement.

But as a guide book aptly pointed out, and I paraphrase here, despite the rush that many consumers accustomed to locked in prices may get from the haggling process that is inbuilt in Bali shopping, it’s important to keep in perspective precisely how much you are bargaining over. One dollar may not be much to you, and you may overpay slightly if you don’t haggle too much, but it may also mean a better meal for someone who needs it much more than you do.

As one waitress informed me, "it is very good to be a tourist in Bali, but to live in Bali is much harder."

They are hustling, every day, every hour, inviting and warm, the consummate salespeople at all times. But they are hustling for a reason.

"You can bargain for anything here," says Wayan, our driver, who has worked with my friend Brooksie for years. He lives in Ubud with his beautiful family, and takes tourists in his SUV to explore the countryside, acting as chauffeur and tour guide all in one. And he looooooves Bob Marley. On repeat. The SUV glides along the left side of the road, past small villages with ornately decorated family temples within each compound, regardless of the household’s caste or income. Small children in neatly pressed white and blue school uniforms wobble on bikes beside us, while in the background workers hack their machetes in the rice fields, shaded only by the wide brim of their triangular hats. Bali is exactly same as everywhere else and yet completely different. In one moment, you can sip espresso at a café that could be anywhere, globally influenced and completely homogenized by tourism and trade. In minutes, you can be transported to a landscape of meticulously tended rice paddies, each rectangle tiered into the next, some sprouting and others submerged, colorful kites poking from the continuum of green to frighten away bird thieves.

We are all part of the process, with each transaction, each ticket, each meal. It’s inescapable, intrinsic to the idea of travel. We are consumers to be sold to, guests to be hosted, contributors on large and small scales to the evolution of an economy, whether we stay at the Hard Rock Bali or a simple homestay. As scooters and minicars whiz by, Wayan deftly navigates his way through the streets of Bali, transporting us to Jimbaron for the best seafood ever, or to Uluwatu to explore the ancient temple with the sea crashing at its knees. As I gaze out of the car window, I feel a little strange being chauffeured throughout Bali. Maggie seems to read my mind.

"I feel like such a tourist," she remarks, staring out at a couple on a moped with their newborn sandwiched between them, giggling and frighteningly helmetless.

I think for a moment about what that means. Through my limited travel experiences and brief stints of living abroad, I have come to notice that my generation is hell-bent on accumulating as many passport stamps as humanly possible, and that such stamps can often fuel ones ego, as if to prove one’s worldliness. I’ve also come to realize that there is an incredibly negative stigma attached to the word "tourist," as the word seems to conjure up images of pasty Americans wearing tube socks, university sweatshirts and backpacks, romping beneath the Eiffel Tower demanding french fries and croissants. In an effort to shirk the label of "tourist", many of my generational counterparts, myself included, have made efforts to travel below the radar, nonchalantly exploring new cities and trying to blend. Newsflash: no one blends. Regardless of your budget, travel plan, or intimate knowledge of the surroundings via Lonely Planet, every last one of us is a tourist.

Although it often drives me nuts to be sitting on the beach in Palau, reading a book and not thinking about work and to look up to see a full on Taiwanese cover shoot occurring next to me (*cultural footnote: I can, unfortunately, anecdotally verify that stereotype about the cameras at all times), there is something genuinely wonderful about the way that certain people embrace travel and exploration. And despite anyone’s best efforts to blend in, or get a "real" experience in a new place, it’s all amazingly new, and different, and you will sincerely regret not visiting some of the generic sites, or taking a picture of you and your best friend at that really cool restaurant you went to that night.

"We are tourists," I say.

"Yeah we are," Maggie responds, still gaping at the unsafe baby situation. (The mother is now awkwardly making the baby wave to us, which is unnerving because she is even less balanced in her perch on the tiny bike and traffic is beginning to move.)

For the rest of the trip, we do not hesitate to take in the "touristy" sites, photograph every scene we consider beautiful or worthy of capturing on film, or eating at every restaurant Brooksie has suggested. Traveling above the radar has distinct advantages; it inspires you to let go of inhibitions about being that cheesy tourist and truly enjoy your vacation. After all, that’s why you’re there.

Beginning Bali

"Seriously, Maggie!  Give me a banana.  NOW!"  From the corner of my eye, I could see tiny paws curling around the rim of my sunglasses.  The monkey shifted its weight from one of my shoulders to the next as it climbed further onto my head, struggling to wrench my glasses off of my face.  It was at the same time panic inducing and insanely funny, and I choked on my own laughter while I desperately gripped my sunglasses, gently wrestling with the fifteen pound primate attached to my head.  

Maggie whirled toward me, attempting to extend a banana in my direction, inadvertently flinging a mother monkey and her tiny offspring toward me.  Momma and baby hit my thigh and slid to the ground, loping off, banana in hand.  Maggie shrieked with laughter as the monkey that was attached to my head ripped the banana from her hand and jumped back into the trees.  Doubled over and choking on my own laughter, I pointed to the ground.  "Ummm, you have another customer." 

Tears streaming down her face, Maggie looked to her side.  A large monkey stood at her hip, pulling impatiently at her dress like an insistently toddler commanding the attention of his mother.  

"No!" Maggie scolded, shaking her finger at the monkey.  "You wait."  She peeled a banana from the bunch and handed it down to him.  He subsequently flopped to the ground where he stood and greedily peeled the banana with his feet, occasionally glancing up at us for more. 

"We need more bananas," Maggie said. 

It was Monday afternoon, our first day in Ubud, Bali, and our first jaunt to the Ubud Monkey Forest, an Ubud tourism staple.  Smooth, mossy stones form a natural moziac under your feet as you wind the paths of the Monkey Forest, surrounding a temple, and brimming with banana crazed monkeys.  Bali residents sit at card tables, peddling bananas to unsuspecting tourists who want to play nice with the inhabitants.  Once they spy a banana, the monkeys emerge from the forest in packs, swinging from trees and climbing atop their victims, pawing mercilessly until they get their share.  Flash bulbs alight, women shriek and parents pull thier children away.  It's hysterical, and so much fun.  The monkeys are basically harmless, just looking to fill their stomachs, loping around the park, pantomiming and dancing for their meals.  

We walked excitedly through the forest, squealing when the larger monkeys ambled toward us, and assigning monkeys to people we knew from home. 

As we made our way to the exit, smelling like monkey and sick from laughing, it occured to me; I hadn't laughed like that in months.  Two months, to be precise.  

Bali is magical. As cliche as it sounds, it's true.  As soon as we arrived, Maggie and I became aware of it.  The residents emanate warmth, and their spiritual devotion is truly admirable.  Each day, the balinese create offerings to their God, in its many manifestations, placing painstakingly created squares of flowers, incense and crackers at their doorsteps.  Women are typically adorned with beautiful batik sarongs and lace tops tied with bright sashes, their hair perfectly combed.  And while the impacts of tourism are widespread, there remains something otherwordly about Bali, some secret the world has yet to unlock, that creates an inner glow and warmth that one would be hard pressed to replicate elsewhere. 

This glow is apparent in our home stay host, Dewi.  She invited us in to look at the rooms available to us in her home, Puri Cantik.  The rooms looked primed for a magazine spread.  Primarily composed of stone and teak, with enough open windows to give an outdoor air to the space, the room boasted two twin beds, covered in balinese fabrics and silk pillows, encased in a filmy mosquito net.  The adjacent private bath had only half walls, and a huge marble bathtub.  

"It's okay?" Dewi inquired.  We both immediately nodded. 

Dewi is special in the mesmerizing way that my elemetary school librarian was.  Her voice and demeanor are of that disarming, sleep inducing quality that immediately puts you at ease.  Her face is kind; her kohl rimmed eyes gaze into yours while she speaks to you, and her smile is genuine and kind. She sits gingerly on the bench outside of her home, gazing at Maggie and me, discussing room details.  She is high cast in Bali; her family owns several restaurants and businesses in Ubud, and her property extends into the rice fields nearby, dripping with class and care.  

"Every morning I will make you breakfast, and we will serve it on your balcony," she says, matter of factly.  Her black hair is swept up on top of her head regally, her make up carefully applied.  Everything about Dewi is polished, including her English.  She motions for the house boy to help us with our bags.  "I hope you love my place," she says earnestly, her amber eyes piercing ours.  Entranced, Maggie and I nod, and head up to our room.  

As I flop onto the twin sized bed and run my fingers along the swaths of netting that encircle me, listening to the distant gurgle of the fountain in the garden below, I sigh audibly. 

Maggie stirs next to me, already giving in to the impending sleep-coma that only jetlag can induce.  

"I can't believe I'm in Bali," I whisper into the air, to no one in particular.  

 

Boats and babies

"You can go to the front," Patricia advised me, her English richly accented with her Peruvian heritage. Although she’s an American citizen and has lived in various international contexts throughout her life, Patricia’s very being is simply permeated with her latin roots, and she positively envelops you with endearment when you are her friend. Her warmth and affection are infectious.

I slowly padded my way to the front of the boat, where thick crosshatches of black webbing interwove a large square net. In the negative space, the turquoise water glinted sunlight back up to the sky as we rode gently across the glassy ocean. Patricia and I stretched out on the webbing, called a trampoline, and tilted our heads back into the wind as Frank guided the catamaran through the harbor.

It was a perfect lazy Sunday. I spent the early part of the morning nestled in a private canopy area at the resort, drinking coffee and watching the waves sigh against the coral and sand beach, and intermittently swimming laps to cool off. As I pulled myself from the water, stowing my fins beneath my arm, I saw Patricia approaching, her round belly giving announcing to the world the impending arrival of her son. She smiled brightly and waved me over to have lunch with her and Frank. Over lunch, they invited me to join them on Frank’s boat for a short ride.

As I clamored to get into the small inflatable dingy, I thought of my grandfather, Vin, who would occasionally take us for boat rides and short sails in the Long Island Sound. We’d scramble out to the dingy or jump into the boat, excitedly grasping our towels and sun screen, delighted to have the attention of our grandfather for the full afternoon. In the evenings, we’d gather around a picnic table, our skin crisp with saltwater and sun, and eat corn on the cob and watch as our parents placed piping hot lobsters onto a serving plate, their red orange shells waiting to be cracked. The sea reminds me of summer, of the shore house, and of a time of blissful ignorance, before deaths and divorces and adolescence, and before you assume adult roles with responsibility for your mistakes.

Patricia expertly hoisted herself from the dingy onto the boat. Now, when Frank and Patricia invited me on their boat, I was thinking of a modest sailboat with a small cabin area. However, the Cadence is a forty foot catamaran, with two bedrooms and a sizeable living room and small kitchen area. Frank has sailed from California down to New Zealand, up to Guam, through the Philippines and back around to Palau. Real estate like this would fetch quite a sum in the US.

Frank and Patricia worked together to prepare the boat, pulling ropes in and navigating through the channel. I watched and pitched in when instructed, appreciating the cohesiveness with which the two worked. As they stood next to each other, reaching to pull the line up to the boat so that we could sit in the cove, their bodies aligned and turned into the sun, the curves of Patricia’s belly accented by the light, I saw for the first time my friend and her family, a portrait of motherhood quite distinct from the norms with which I have been presented, a possibility and a reality representing the choices in life.

Since I’ve been on island, I’ve had the pleasure of acquainting myself with people who I probably never would have had the chance to meet otherwise. Patricia is about 15 years my senior, an accomplished entrepreneur and consultant with a colorful resume bursting with international experience. At 42, she will be a mother for the first time, and on her own terms. Watching her navigate the ocean at the wheel of the boat, beaming at her husband to be, lighting up when she talks of her plans to redecorate her new house when she returns from having her child in Peru, I see a woman who has truly taken advantage of what life has had to offer, who wasn’t afraid to take roads less taken, and it’s inspiring me to rethink any preconceived notions of motherhood I previously held.

We spent the afternoon snorkeling, dipping beneath the soft coral arches and inspecting coral.  I finned close to the limestone edges of the tiny rock island leaning over the ocean, and ran my hand along the jagged surface, thinking of the upcoming fall days at home when my friends would be out climbing in New Paltz, feeling the same stone beneath their calloused hands as they moved languidly through one problem to the next.  I wondered if I would be back in time to smell chimneys burning, see the leaves as they are saturated in deep burgundies and organges, and feel the scrape of cold autumn rock beneath my fingers (and feel the thud of my ass hitting the crash pad).  But as the days go by here, my wonderment isn't always necessarily accompanied by longing...there will soon be a day when I wish for the blues and greens of Palau.  There's something about the sun drenched days on the water here that leave you surprisingly zen.

Fast forward to that evening. I sat watching Miami Ink (in syndication here), contemplating a new tattoo, when a commercial for an upcoming show on motherhood bursts onto the screen. "Midwives have assisted with water births for centuries.." the ad announces from the screen, over a horrific montage of mothers, veins protruding from their foreheads, squatting in hot tubs and yelling as babies pop to the top of the tub, blue and screaming. Any sunshiney image of Patricia on the boat has fled from my memory, replaced with murky hot tub water and husbands brushing the matted hair from their wives’ sweaty foreheads. I shudder in horror, and phone Kristen immediately.

"Have you ever seen a water birth?" I shriek into the receiver when she picks up.

"Yes," she laughs. Kristen studied reproductive science and is perfectly calm about this subject. I am not. I describe to her, in detail, the content of the ad, in utter shock and the sheer vulgarity of it all. Maybe it was the way the ad was shot?

"Adoption plans still on?" she inquires, laughing at my dismay.

"Oh yes," I respond.

Maybe I’m not that grown up after all . . .

Coming Soon...

My eyes felt irritated from staring at the screen.  I could hear the click-clack of the pads of my fingers against the keyboard, and the whir of the incessant flow of arctic air blowing through the vents into my office.  I plodded along through the chart. "311. Maximum Single Risk. The maximu --"

"Guess who's meeting you in Guam?" an instant message box interrupted my typing, begging the question. My face brightened.

"YOU!!!!" I excitedly click-clacked back. 

Maggie did it. She was officially ticketed to fly out, meet me in Guam and head into Bali.  I was elated.  I swear, there is nothing like clicking on the "accept" icon when buying travel, and that gratification that only accompanies seeing the itinerary as it mirrors your future back to you in deskjet ink.  Not five minutes after the welcome interruption, Maggie's itinerary came through my e-mail account.  In just under two weeks, we would be on a beach in Indonesia, catching up a world away from where our friendship started, literally. 

It's crazy to think that it was almost four years ago that I met Maggie and moved in with her.  I remember being hesitant, as I had only had a few conversations with her...I wondered if we'd get along.  Three years of living together later, it literally pains me to be this far away from her sometimes - she's more of a sister to me than a friend by now, and it seems foreign to be living day to day without her company.  Sure, we've had our share of yelling matches and catty remarks back and forth, but at this point I'm hard pressed to find anyone, beyond Sage, who knows me better.  Even though we keep in touch, and even though I've developed wonderful friendships out here, there's nothing like hanging out with your best friends - the people who have nursed you through your very worst and applauded you at your very best. 

Maggie has been there for me, clapping with the crowd at my law school graduation, sitting on the corner of her bed and watching me cry after break ups, respecting my odd hatred of sharing bags of microwave popcorn, and yelling at me not to leave a wet sponge in the sink.  She knows what I think about my family, when I'm really hurt, and what I am sensitive about.  (Please cue the Golden Girls theme song in your head...don't pretend you don't know it...)

So my elation at the sight of her itinerary stems not only from the anticipation of having a wonderful time in a beautiful place like Bali, but her mere presence will inevitably mitigate any feelings of homesickness I have out here.  It's a strange emotion, being homesick.  It causes to your really realize what home is.  For me, it's not the house I was living in (which was beautiful), or the exact location (though I do love Connecticut), but mainly the people I have in my life that I hold so dear.  My friends and family who know me intimately, and understand my humor, who support me and care for me, who create a safety net I didn't even realize existed until I went away. 

And as I anticipate Maggie coming to visit, I am excited to show her my Palau, as I have come to know it.  The billowing clouds resting close to the sea, the lush green tree branches and vines draped lavishly across the rolling hills and shallow valleys, giving way to the crisp coastlines.  The people, the food, the ease with which people go about living, the decidely unharried lifestyle, even the frustrations that accompany life here.  Pretty soon, my two realities will collide, and I will finally have a chance to show my friend where I am living, where I have made my home for the past year. We'll see how she likes it...

 

Thank you for smoking

I guess we were all guilty, in a way. We all shot him, we all skinned him, and we all got a complimentary bumper sticker that said, "I helped skin Bob." – a Deep Thought by Jack Handey

The Tobacco Bill was pronounced dead on the floor yesterday morning. I don’t even think anyone took measures to resuscitate it. I don’t even know if they felt sorry.

There are times in my life, small defining moments, telling of what my true desires in life are. Yesterday morning was one of those times.

The World Health Organization created model legislation for tobacco reform within its member states. It’s a great piece of legislation, quite honestly, and as a non-smoker (at one point in my life I was up to at least a pack a day), I personally thought that it was an excellent measure. However, as a legislative counsel, I saw it as thirty six pages of enforcement issues, economic impacts and constituent uproars. A complete ban on advertising and promotion meant loss of revenue; nonsmoking policies meant loss of tourism, as the majority of tourists frequenting Palau are Asian men and women who would smoke while eating if they could; a ban on growing tobacco products meant local people banging on the doors of the delegates, protesting the infringement on local agriculture. As an objective party, a non-citizen and perpetual outsider, my own personal beliefs are often cast to the wayside as legislation is considered. What I think, what I believe, matters only to the pages of my journal and my friends and family who subject themselves to my ranting. There is no place here for opinions or beliefs. To that place is securely fastened a sign stating the one hard and fast rule of Palau’s political infrastructure: "No foreigners allowed."

Anecdotally, Palau has a 110% rate of tobacco use amongst its population, between the natives, neatly tucking halves of cigarettes into their betelnut to make elauses to chew, and the foreign workers, spewing smoke from their lungs at every opportunity to break from their backbreaking labor. It is a way of life here, as is eating canned food and drinking cheap liquor at karaoke bars. And Palauans are notoriously stubborn when it comes to retaining culture, even when it comes at the cost of health. Diabetes, heart disease, obesity are all plaguing this island, each citizen inching closer to deterioration with every can of Spam they ingest. (A digression for a vocabulary lesson: "spuna: spam, canned tuna and rice, rolled into an egg wrap for a healthy morning snack or breakfast on the go.")

The legislative findings clearly enumerate the ills associated with all types of tobacco use. Ominous terms like cancer, heart disease, SIDS, birth defects, fibrosis, all seemed to fall on deaf ears when the equation was balanced. I have to admit, I didn’t help.

In my job here, cancer and fibrosis have to be countered with revenues and taxation; I wouldn’t be adequately assisting the delegates if I didn’t see things this way. Which brings me to yesterday morning, when I watched the Tobacco Bill, a comprehensively crafted piece of legislation that could have (enforcement permitting) significantly impacted the overall health of the Republic, die, suddenly and swiftly on the floor.

When I as a little kid, I learned what a catalyst was from that old song/book: "There was an old lady who swallowed a fly..." The game of mousetrap was set in motion, and culminated with this sudden death of a bill. I realized yesterday that I do want to have an opinion, to take a stand, to be one sided (after having thoroughly considered the other side) on certain issues. I want subjectivity, to a certain degree, in my career. Where previously I’d considered objective a positive, and subjective inherently negative when it comes to matters of law and justice, I now understand the malleability of the meaning and application of those terms. I want to be vested in what I’m working on in the way that one can only be when they are truly part of the community that will be affected by the laws or decisions that are made. Foreigners are kept at such an arms length here that it’s difficult to be truly interested or invested in anything, unless you plan to make Palau a permanent home. And as attached as I have or may become to this place, this community still doesn’t feel like mine.

Patricia explained to me once why she became a US citizen, stating that she wanted to be a participating member of the community, voting and being politically proactive. The best avenue for doing that was to become a citizen, and she is so proud to be part of that community now. Similarly, I am craving that kind of participation now, that sort of ownership and passion that accompanies a feeling of belonging to a society. The upside is that being away has renewed my sense of belonging, and my desire to be proactive and to participate in my community. Sometimes I guess you need to step away to see what you were missing.

Sticking around

The video camera had a fuzzy cover over the microphone, and the way that the man expertly wielded it made me feel like I was part of a documentary.

"After I am back, I will mail you a DVD, if you would like," he offered to me in heavily accented English. Originally from the black forest region in Germany, the cameraman was a doctor and teacher, living in Yap. He once lived in Palau ("from 1959 to 1961," he told roughly eight people at different times throughout the day) and was back to visit, along with a few friends.

"That would be really nice," I bellowed over the sound of the engine.

Once again, I was seated on a Sam’s Tours boat, this time with a friend of a friend who was traveling around the world. He generously offered to have me accompany him on what I now call the "intro circuit," a tour through the rock islands: Soft Coral Arch, Cemetery Reef, Jellyfish Lake, Clam City, Milky Way, and back. As usual, the day was perfect. The sun glinted off of gentle waves, perfectly shaped clouds hung overhead, as if someone painted them against the bright blue sky. Even the rock islands looked particularly green and lush, showing off their waxy leaves and sharp limestone angles for the tourists. I tucked my headphones into my ears, letting Jack Johnson lull me into relaxation as the boat hummed along the curves of the ocean, weaving through rock islands to our first stop - Cemetery Reef, thus named because the pieces of coral jutting from the ocean floor looked almost like gravestones. Fish swarmed the boat in anticipation, looking for the morsels of bentos tourists frequently deposited into the ocean at this point.

The day drifted by as we boated and snorkeled our way through the rock islands...the German doctor documenting every move (I certainly hope he edits before sending the dVD). Our final stop was a place I hadn’t been before. Malagki’s Corner (I know I am spelling this incorrectly). Our guide calls it "express snorkeling", because a current of about 4 mph cruises you through schools of fish and bright coral. We floated underwater, letting the current guide us along, rolling in the water. At one point, our guide surfaced, holding a puffer fish, fully inflated to ward off predators. We laughed hysterically as she deposited it back into the water, and it sailed in circles back to the bottom of the ocean like a deflating balloon.

Palau surprises me sometimes. Just when it’s gray for weeks, a seemingly endless stream of rainy mornings and dark afternoons, the weather gives way and the world opens up in color, as if breathing life back into the islands and their inhabitants.

It’s weekends like this that fuel my indecision about my future here.

"You know, the next year will be more fun, less stressful. I think you are doing an excellent job," the Floor Leader said to me over his desk yesterday, cocking his head slightly, "If you would like to stay, you should let us know soon."

I nodded in response.

Stay?

Eight months have seemed so long, and so short, all at the same time. I remember sitting in my apartment in Melekeok, wondering what I had done to myself in moving out here. But I also remember walking along North Beach at night, diving with sea turtles, and laying out on the beach at PPR on a lazy Sunday.

"You have to think about what it means to stay for another year, though," my brother advised me this morning. I pictured him on his earpiece at work, typing at a computer and sipping from a Starbucks cup. Ever the pragmatist, I solicit his advice when it really counts. "I mean, when we were in Iraq, we stopped into some cool places, but in the end, I was like, nope, not going back."

Although my job in Palau is highly distinguishable from a Special Forces stint in Iraq, his point resonated with me. "What’s the appeal? If it’s traveling through Asia, you should leave that alone, and just think of the job, on its own, and what it does for you and whether you’ll be happy there, after the travel is over, and your working there for another year."

I thought of Cranberry Park, walking with Maggie and the dogs, and dinners with my Grandmother. I thought of watching movies with my friends, messing around at the climbing gym, going to my neice and nephew's games. I thought of working in an office with people who speak English, and getting the chance to counsel clients and represent them in court. I thought of Fall, Winter, and unexpired dairy products. The little things in life that make me happy. 

I made a list this morning, of what I would do with my life if the clouds rained money and it was all up to me. Those goals will remain, whether I am here or in Connecticut, or anywhere else in the world. The only fear I truly have at this point is stagnation, which can occur in even the most luxurious of environments.

I clearly have much to consider in the coming weeks.

Sticking around

The video camera had a fuzzy cover over the microphone, and the way that the man expertly wielded it made me feel like I was part of a documentary.

"After I am back, I will mail you a DVD, if you would like," he offered to me in heavily accented English. Originally from the black forest region in Germany, the cameraman was a doctor and teacher, living in Yap. He once lived in Palau ("from 1959 to 1961," he told roughly eight people at different times throughout the day) and was back to visit, along with a few friends.

"That would be really nice," I bellowed over the sound of the engine.

Once again, I was seated on a Sam’s Tours boat, this time with a friend of a friend who was traveling around the world. He generously offered to have me accompany him on what I now call the "intro circuit," a tour through the rock islands: Soft Coral Arch, Cemetery Reef, Jellyfish Lake, Clam City, Milky Way, and back. As usual, the day was perfect. The sun glinted off of gentle waves, perfectly shaped clouds hung overhead, as if someone painted them against the bright blue sky. Even the rock islands looked particularly green and lush, showing off their waxy leaves and sharp limestone angles for the tourists. I tucked my headphones into my ears, letting Jack Johnson lull me into relaxation as the boat hummed along the curves of the ocean, weaving through rock islands to our first stop - Cemetery Reef, thus named because the pieces of coral jutting from the ocean floor looked almost like gravestones. Fish swarmed the boat in anticipation, looking for the morsels of bentos tourists frequently deposited into the ocean at this point.

The day drifted by as we boated and snorkeled our way through the rock islands...the German doctor documenting every move (I certainly hope he edits before sending the dVD). Our final stop was a place I hadn’t been before. Malagki’s Corner (I know I am spelling this incorrectly). Our guide calls it "express snorkeling", because a current of about 4 mph cruises you through schools of fish and bright coral. We floated underwater, letting the current guide us along, rolling in the water. At one point, our guide surfaced, holding a puffer fish, fully inflated to ward off predators. We laughed hysterically as she deposited it back into the water, and it sailed in circles back to the bottom of the ocean like a deflating balloon.

Palau surprises me sometimes. Just when it’s gray for weeks, a seemingly endless stream of rainy mornings and dark afternoons, the weather gives way and the world opens up in color, as if breathing life back into the islands and their inhabitants.

It’s weekends like this that fuel my indecision about my future here.

"You know, the next year will be more fun, less stressful. I think you are doing an excellent job," the Floor Leader said to me over his desk yesterday, cocking his head slightly, "If you would like to stay, you should let us know soon."

I nodded in response.

Stay?

Eight months have seemed so long, and so short, all at the same time. I remember sitting in my apartment in Melekeok, wondering what I had done to myself in moving out here. But I also remember walking along North Beach at night, diving with sea turtles, and laying out on the beach at PPR on a lazy Sunday.

"You have to think about what it means to stay for another year, though," my brother advised me this morning. I pictured him on his earpiece at work, typing at a computer and sipping from a Starbucks cup. Ever the pragmatist, I solicit his advice when it really counts. "I mean, when we were in Iraq, we stopped into some cool places, but in the end, I was like, nope, not going back."

Although my job in Palau is highly distinguishable from a Special Forces stint in Iraq, his point resonated with me. "What’s the appeal? If it’s traveling through Asia, you should leave that alone, and just think of the job, on its own, and what it does for you and whether you’ll be happy there, after the travel is over, and your working there for another year."

I thought of Cranberry Park, walking with Maggie and the dogs, and dinners with my Grandmother. I thought of watching movies with my friends, messing around at the climbing gym, going to my neice and nephew's games. I thought of working in an office with people who speak English, and getting the chance to counsel clients and represent them in court. I thought of Fall, Winter, and unexpired dairy products. The little things in life that make me happy. 

I made a list this morning, of what I would do with my life if the clouds rained money and it was all up to me. Those goals will remain, whether I am here or in Connecticut, or anywhere else in the world. The only fear I truly have at this point is stagnation, which can occur in even the most luxurious of environments.

I clearly have much to consider in the coming weeks.

Repping NYC, Ugly American Style

“So, I just need to cancel that reservation.” “Okay, ma’am.  What the name?” “I thought we just did this?”

“Yes, ma’am.  What the name?” “Do you understand what I’m saying?  It’s okay if you don’t, but just say yes or no.” “Yes, ma’am.” “Are you just saying yes ma’am, or do you know what I’m saying?” “Yes, ma’am.”

I wanted to bang my head against the desk, but thought against it.  For the past five or so minutes, I was engaged in a back and forth communication error prolonged only by my foolish stubbornness and desire to convey what I wanted.

I don’t know Tagalog.  I am trying and failing to learn Palauan, beyond simple greetings and ordering in a restaurant, and my Spanish level is rapidly decreasing to remedial.  I am by no means an international linguistics genius.  However, I don’t pretend to understand what people are saying when I don’t.  This only leads to trouble, in my experience.

It’s a nasty habit here in Palau.  Often people are so rude to the service people here that they are literally afraid to admit that they don’t understand English.  To question someone here is rude. So, it follows that quite a few words here are lost in translation.  This has become increasingly frustrating for me as my time here continues. 

We ordered pizza the other night at Emaimelei, a little restaurant down the street.  Despite the one hour wait time, we decided to stick it out and sat in a booth, practically drooling.  Buck can’t stomach pineapple, so Kristin and I ordered the Hawaiian, and Buck and Chris ordered some family sized monstrosity with every kind of meat but Spam.  After an hour of waiting, the Hawaiian pizza emerged, piping hot.  Buck patiently waited as we enjoyed our dinner.  Forty five minutes later, he shifted in his seat, flagging a waitress to our table.

“Um, so, about that other pizza?” he asked politely. 

“What pizza?” the waitress innocently asked, tilting her head, as if to jog her memory. 

If I were Buck, I would be getting hangry by now (*hungry + angry = hangry, thanks Sheryl), but he handled it well.  “You said no,” she countered.

“No, I said, yes.”

“Yes, no? You want to order pizza? One and a half hour," she smiled politely, without a trace of sarcasm.

We all exchanged glances.  Buck picked the pineapple from the remaining slices and ate in silence.  Another thing about Palau – the customer is usually wrong.  Do not expect any remedial attempts on the part of the management to improve your dining experience; they know they’re the only game in town.  I can note Taj as an exception to this, but in general, this is the rule: be happy you got food similar to what you ordered, and that each plate came out in a reasonable amount of time with relation to the others. 

It was cute at first, because, though the mistakes are frequent, they are always executed with a brilliant, friendly smile, prompting responses like: “How weird, my pizza came out a full thirty minutes before your salad!”  “Haha, this isn’t what I ordered.” “Why would you charge my credit card an extra ten dollars? I only had a sandwich.” “This brown water is coffee?”  But after a while, it’s tiring. 

That could explain why, back in June, when I saw my first Starbucks in six months, I ran across the airport to the barista, arms outstretched like a toddler lost in a department store being reunited with her mother.  It may be pathetic, and I may not be a cool, open minded tourist, but sometimes I long for the uniformity, the speed and convenience of the United States.  Sure, I’d rather support a mom and pop business over an international conglomerate.  Everyone loves the David and Goliath stories of capitalism.  And I would never forego a local dining experience to go to a McDonalds in a foreign country (or ever). But when you’re hangry, all you really want is service.  And that’s not necessarily a strong point for Palau, even if it is done with a smile. 

I’m trying, though, to develop stronger diplomatic skills.  Often the language barrier can be conquered by speaking in the strange local pidgin.  Kristen and I both notice this to be effective.  “What kind of fresh fish do you have today?” becomes “you have fish today.” (this is stated like a true/false question, which is then answered with the kind of fish available).  I catch myself saying “I off on Wednesday,” or “I want tofu and vegetables. No oil, you steam.”  Where I once was afraid such concise, choppy statements would be misconstrued as impolite, they are now effective means for communicating what you want.  But, there is certainly a line between being frustrated, or resorting to more rudimentary common language and being an ugly American beyotch. 

I was at one of the upper crust resorts on island the other day (where they give $9 pedicures complete with tiny hand-painted hibiscus flowers on your toes, thank you Milead Salon), waiting to speak to a customer service person.  A woman to my left stood, impatiently drumming her meticulous French manicure against the counter, boring holes into a young employee who was typing on a computer. 

“I got here over fifteen minutes ago, and you still haven’t fixed my room,” she continued to stare hatefully at the young man.  “You know, I just came from the Shangri-la in Hong Kong and the one in Manila, and…” she trailed off, then turned to look at me.

“Do you know where the best view is here?” she inquired of me.

“Um, no,” I replied, stifling laugher. “It’s all pretty much beautiful ocean views.”

“Well, I have been traveling a very, very long time, and I want a direct view of the sunset.” She said to me, though aiming her sharp words in the direction of the young man, who was scrambling to resolve her earth shattering dilemma. 

“Oh, yeah?” I said, “where are you from?” “New York,” she replied, brushing her long black hair over her shoulder.  Of course.  Thanks a lot for representing the northeast.

“I’m going to get a manager, right away,” the young man said timidly.

“Yes, if I have to speak with your manager, then I will,” she replied curtly.

Another young female employee approached the counter, and the young man quickly spoke to her in Palauan.  I hoped it was something along the lines of “give this bitch the room she wants but spit in her food.”

The young woman was clearly nervous, and stood for a moment behind the counter.

“Oh, yeah, roll your eyes at me, go ahead.” New York spat, glaring at the girl, whose age I approximated to be between 15 and 18, and appeared to be slightly trembling.  I hadn’t noticed an eye roll.  Maybe she had a twitch? 

I turned away, heading back to the salon.  Behind me, I could hear New York prattling her way through another  tangent. 

Frustrating or not, it’s still pathetic to hear the rantings of ugly Americans.  Though I do adopt a snotty attitude during certain points in the customer service process, and I will be the first person to admit my own guilt when it comes to being a bitch for no reason in particular, there is a certain spectrum within which I work. And there is a line where frustrated traveler turns to self righteous bitch on a tangent, ruining the reputation for tourists from the tri-state area.  I’m going to keep this experience in my back pocket for the next time my pizza comes out late. 

36

The phone line crackled with static.  I nervously scribbled my pencil against the paper, shading in an ambiguous shape as I waited for the next question.

“So I have to ask this,” she began, laughing lightly, “where do you see yourself in ten years?”

The conversation had been going well so far, volleying questions and answers back and forth over ten thousand miles of ocean.  I really wanted this job.

It’s funny how many places you can go on just one train of thought.  Ten years swirled through my brain.  I stammered. 

Long after hanging up the receiver and letting my employment fate float up to the universe, the question lingered in my mind. In making goals for myself, I had never really quantified them in terms of chronology.  In ten years, I will be thirty six.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen myself at any age, and thirty six is an arbitrary age as ever.  My reluctance to envision myself in the future with any sort of clarity has never been unhealthy, in my opinion.  So many extraneous factors can contribute to the shape your life will take in the future, so many unforeseen circumstances and variables in your life equation.  It seems pointless to try to calculate who you will be in the future, to articulate it beyond a rough sketch. 

But increasingly I’ve been urged to see myself to a certain degree in the future.  “What do you think you’ll do after this?” is increasingly flowing from the mouths of my family and friends.  Even the movie The Secret (this film, a spiritual infomercial, though containing many truths largely based on the teachings of Deepak Chopra, should probably remain a secret.  Read the book instead.) prescribes a healthy dose of self visualization, imploring the secret seeker to sit and clearly envision a “self” in the future, acting out a job or a scenario that they wish for.  And now this.  Where did I see myself in ten years?

This is what I said:  “Well, I see myself either as a director with you, or at a nonprofit grassroots organization dedicated to social change.”  Pull file from stock answer section, spout from mouth.  It was true, though, if incomplete.

This is what I thought: “Well, I see myself either as a director with you, or at a nonprofit grassroots organization dedicated to social change.  And being fluent in Spanish, maybe French, too.  I would love to learn French.  Travel to Morocco, Spain, Argentina, Kenya, Sweden, Japan, Indonesia, Thailand…maybe about ten thousand other places.  Teach a college class on law or philosophy or politics.  A Master’s in environmental health, maybe public policy to stay general.  Adopt children.  Have a functional relationship.  Own a small café.  Getting better at surfing.  Finally buying my own horse with my own money.  You know, I’ve never been dogsledding, but I would love to do that one day.  Alaska.  I would like to go to Alaska, too…”

Perhaps it would have been too much information.  Perhaps my goals are too scattered, too numerous to cram in over a ten year period.  But in crafting goals for the future, it compelled me also to examine my past.  Ten years ago, I was sixteen years old, freshly licensed to drive and doing everything in my power to avoid attending class.  I’d already become aware that after ten detentions, you’d get suspended, which was a free day off, so I was working on accumulating those.  I had mastered my mother’s signature, and often wrote sick notes for friends, spending the day in somebody’s basement smoking cigarettes and listening to bad music.  I had a 1.8 grade point average and no college plans to speak of, and had repeatedly begged my father to sign papers allowing me to drop out of school, to no avail.  School just wasn’t my thing, I would complain, turning on my heel and running dramatically up the stairs to my room, flinging myself on my bed and sighing with teenaged despair.  And who the hell thought chunky highlights were cool?  Blech.  I think if you had told me at that point in my life that I would be a lawyer in ten years (who willfully subjected herself to seven years of school after high school graduation), living ten thousand miles away on a tiny island helping to write laws, I probably would have scoffed and flicked a cigarette at you (charming, but true). 

But to me, the evolution is remarkable.  I’ve definitely still got the dramatic teenaged bitch lingering in me, and to be honest, I’m not always sure I want to let her go.  She comes in handy sometimes, when I think I or one of my friends has been handed a raw deal.  But so much has changed, too.

It’s exciting to think of what will transpire over the next ten years between now and thirty six.  I have so many places to travel, people to meet, gains, losses, classes, cases, books to read, movies to see (kit-kat bites to eat).  Why would I ever want to purposely create a preconceived vision of myself, a prefabricated me with preordered shoes to fill?  The element of surprise, the unknown events that will shape you, for better or worse, in the future, are precisely what get us out of bed each morning. 

So I’m still on the fence about seeing myself in ten years.  I think, given my track record, I’ll exercise patience and wait to find out.  I’ll know her when I see her. 

Over the hill

Front nine, back nine.  Half-time.  Mid-life crisis.  I could go on, but these homages to the half way points of life are indicative not only of the natural human tendency to segment things into neat portions, but also our tendency to celebrate  (or become petrified of) being half-way through something.  I’m finding that being over the half way hump can be the beginning of a slippery slope.  I am five neatly outlined boxes away from August on my desk calendar; 4 months and change remain on my contract here in Palau.  Days that once dripped by slowly and methodically like Chinese water torture are now sliding into one another, as rounds of bills and committee reports pass over my desk like they’re on a conveyer belt.  I’ve got to admit, it’s kind of cool.

I feel more settled than before, more confident.  Sometimes I hear myself speaking and am actually surprised at the authority in my voice.  And most of what I’m saying is substantiated by some type of knowledge.  I want to wonder exactly when this all happened, but I’m just too pleased to enter into that realm of conjecture.

 

With another attorney in the office now, it’s nice to feel part of a team. She’s self assured, experienced and knows all to well the pitfalls of this job, so it’s someone whose work practices I can emulate and with whom I can commiserate with about the overall experience.

 

And it’s not just in the office.  I wake up in the mornings and write in a journal by my window.  A creature of habit, I’m starting to crave the slight breeze on my face and the smell of coffee filtering through from the kitchen.  I look out at the same twin palm trees, swaying indiscriminantly with whatever breeze comes their way, coconut slowly browning and falling with the passing days.  When I walk to the grocery store, I see people I know. And the average, entertaining Saturdays I have recently described are increasingly frequent. 

 

There remains an undercurrent, however, of social inequality that still baffles and upsets me.  It does this on several levels, but I’ll touch upon two.  The first is that because this inequality is so blatant, I am required to pay attention to it.  But in doing so, I am able to recognize traits that translate into my own society at home.  In other words, social injustices are pervasive in every society, not just developing nations.  In the US, some people are just better at hiding their biases.  The second is that I am fairly powerless in remedying the situation here, as I am not a citizen, nor am I an advocate.  In fact, I have to make a concentrated effort each day not to inject my political opinion into the legal documents I write.  These observations and problems, however, have lead me to one conclusion:  back in the US, I have the power, and in a sense, a sort of moral duty to become proactive in addressing the social issues I find particularly disturbing and pressing, such as immigration reform, domestic violence and environmental health. 

 

So as the clock winds down, and I find myself approaching the end of the line here, I’m concerned more now with how I can build a foundation in human rights work, how I can use what I’m learning and seeing through travel in a way that positively effects change in my home community.  How I can smuggle a monkey back into the US as a pet.  Just kidding on that last one.  Unless someone has any ideas….

I’m sure I sound naïve and idealistic (cue high maintenance granola girl drinking a $5 chai latte and pontificating about social values yet refusing to vote in the national election...now!), and I hope I still do in forty, fifty years.  But when I sit at the Taj (*which, by the way, is the best Indian restaurant, ever) and hear one of the waitresses tell me her story (so matter-of-factly: “Well, I haven’t been home in two years because I am not affording it, and I haven’t seen my baby since she is one.  I have to make money because otherwise we can not eat.” *and make money means roughly $200 a month in Palau, where the cost of living is similar to the US),  it gives me pause to think of how I’m spending my own life, how I’m narrating my own story.  All we can really hope for is to do our best, to do what we think is right, and to live our lives with purpose, passion and conviction.  I'm trying to keep that in mind as I finish up in the second half.