Working for the Weekend

Weekdays and weekends here are sort-of the same thing, we work. I had a conference call the other day Friday 20th October) that started at 8pm and went until about a quarter till ten, once that call was over I had to call my immediate supervisor and reshuffle my schedule to fit everything in once that was done I had to sit down and start mapping out how I could possibly get everything I need done, done. One advantage to being on the other side of the globe is having an 11 hour head start on NHQ, if I get work done by close of business (COB) my time it will be waiting for NHQ the following morning, the down side is that you wake-up to 30 emails filled with requests and still have your in-country deadlines and daily responsibilities.

This donor trip is a massive responsibility but I still have stories I have to write, interviews that I have to do to write those stories, and constant trips to the field. To make matters worse, this week is the end of Ramadan and the whole country is off on holiday, international staff get three days off, local staff get the whole week off and the city basically shuts down, it is a week of celebrations and festivities. There will only be about six of us in the office this week so getting anything done will be hard.

This last week was more hectic that I had thought. I spent Tuesday traveling all day; we went to a nearby island, Pulo Weh (pronounced poo-low way), and visited our water and sanitation programs and IDP projects. To get to the island we take an hour long ferry ride; it’s a smooth ride on a large ferry boat. Pulo Weh is one of those places that never makes it on a map but is so beautiful and filled with fauna that you get of the boat and wonder if this was Eden. The IDP village we went to was great, the villagers were so happy for the housing and water that we (our partners included) provide that they greeted us with smiles and laughter. I went from family to family taking pictures and visiting their homes, it was nice to have a warm reception and it was good to see an IDP camp that was clean and healthy. My NGO is very well received on Pulo Weh and we really seem to being doing things the right way their.

The next day we went to Calang (pronounced Cha-long), just getting there is challenge. The NY Times recently wrote and article on the road that takes you their, it was not a positive story and shows some of the failings of many of the organizations that spend so much money for so little results here (this is not a soapbox moment, we are no less guilty in this critique). For me to do my job properly, on a shortened time frame, I had to take a helicopter their, that leads me to my boy moment…

First, traveling by helicopter only takes an hour to get their and it is no luxury ride, 21 bodies crammed into a cargo helicopter that is operated by the UN and run by the Russians. Bench seats with dirty noise reduction head phones and seatbelts abound. We shake and shimmy of a tarmac and land in a grass field. But, pulling up to the airstrip in my NGO’s 4WD landcruiser and seeing the giant rustic UN helicopter on the tarmac made my insides flip for joy, I couldn’t help but be filled with excitement and pride, it is an awesome experience just to visualize. It’s a scene you’ve see a million times in cheesy movies but to actually experience it as part of your everyday job is humbling and totally awesome (I get extra points for alliteration).

Once in Calang you can’t help but be struck by the disgustingly slow progress that has been made. There is a good road but scattered along that road are tents and barracks that still house victims, nearly two years latter and people are still living in tents. After having spent a day their walking around I can tell you that I have rarely been anywhere more uncomfortably hot and humid, I could not imagine calling a tent my home for a weekend, these people have been their for nearly two years.

There are many reasons for this, land titles are a huge problem here, also, so are resources. Before the tsunami 10,000 houses a year were built, we are now trying to build 100,000 a year. Houses require wood and cement but if we cut down all the trees than we destroy the local vegetation and create long term ecological damage, if we import all the cement and wood we greatly limit the number of houses that can be built and become poor stewards of the donors’ dollars and create only a limited number of houses that only provide a short term solution. It is a horrible and difficult situation but one, we all agree, needs to be dealt with more efficiently than has been thus far.

The people of Indonesia are growing tired of the slow progress and resentment to the international presence is beginning to be felt throughout the country. It is hard to blame them for this; when you are told that billions of dollars are being giving to make your lives better and all these international organizations move into your small towns, renting enormous houses and bringing their western beliefs and practices to your backyard yet you continue to live in the same tent month after month it is easy to see why there is resentment. These are a proud people. Can you imagine if the US had been crippled by a tsunami and a group of Muslim countries sent NGOs to our aid, bought enormous houses flouted our system of beliefs and didn’t deliver the relief they promised…they would not last long. And many of our failures are true failures. In some cases money is being spent just so NGO’s can say they are doing something.

One group was given a large sum of money to build 5,000 houses, they built less than 500 and yet are not being held accountable by anyone because these funding agencies can say “we spend X millions of dollars working with our partners to ensure that the people of Indonesia receive quality housing…” You throw in a few pictures of some of the decent houses and people think you are doing a great job. A lot of quality work is being done here, I would not be here if I was not proud of the work my NGO was doing, and most everyone here has their heart in the right place, but failure persists. The same case could be made for Darfur or even New Orleans, huge operations backed by enormous amounts of donor money tend to evolve into chaos. But I digress…

After taking the helicopter back to Banda (so cool) I had less than an hour to race to the office, pick-up my ticket and head to the airport to go to Singapore. I didn’t arrive in Singapore until 1:15am, it was the longest day I can remember, I smelled ripe and was exhausted. I had taken two helicopter rides and three flights all in one day, that is too much travel (without including all the moving around in the crippling humidity of Calang). The next morning I spent intermittently shopping and working in Singapore (while getting my Indo. work Visa renewed). I bought a great new belt and three new bracelets that are perfect for me. Sing. is a beautiful city and is a lot of fun. I ran into some NGO friends of mine and we spent the day wandering the city and trying out great food and ambiance, a nice reprieve from Banda. The next morning I was off to the airport, I left Sing. at 8:40 am and was back in my office by 11:30, it was weirdly reassuring to be back.

A Bombshell Hits Home

I have mentioned the donor visit a few times now, it is where some of the top donors (and potential donors) to our projects here come and see what we are doing. These trips are always an immense amount of work, and when it is done right the donor will never realize that we spent months preparing for the trip. Our donors will be here for three days, my NGO will have spent more than three months preparing for it when all is said in done. One of the things that they have done to ensure a smooth trip is send someone from NHQ to come and help me prepare for it.

She is the most adorable blonde hair blue eyed angel you could ever hope to meet. She is staying in the house with me and since she has arrived we have had a dinner party where we both cooked a great past dinner with all the doings, went for two runs, made awesome steaks, shopped countless times, watched tons of movies, took a dance tutorial from a DVD and even managed to communicate only through song for more than a few minutes. Needless to say I think she is awesome.

We are both totally insane and our quirks compliment each other well. I have a need to be on time, she has a need to stick to a schedule, she needs to do dishes I need to make sure I go to bed in a clean house. We both got crazy excited shopping for cleaning supplies, we ran into our maid at the store while we were buying everything and were devastated that she wasn’t as excited as we were (both of us are far better cleaners and we’re thinking about doing the cleaning ourselves). Oh, and don’t worry ladies she is happily married. She is a newlywed (married six weeks ago) and her husband appears to be an incredibly caring and sweet man, she is my dorky sister type friend—I think that is what allows us to work so well together.

Ramadan Draws to a Close

Tuesday was Edul-Fitri, the breaking of the fast. It begins a long celebration that is marked by asking for forgivness and the sharing of wealth and love. In the Muslim faith people us this time to tithe their wealth to the poor and visit friends and family in procession of good will. It is also a time to give thanks to God for allowing them the strength to fast. The week long celebration is their Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving and New Years all in row, each day is a precious day of celebration and adulation.

The Muslim community in Banda Aceh is very conservative. They are strictly governed by Muslim Law but it is not an oppressive hybrid of Islamic beliefs such as the Taliban practiced. The people here can listen to music and have national television (with horrible soap operas).

Local women must wear jilbabs (the head wraps) and are forbidden to date non-Muslim men, in fact, they basically can never be alone in a room with a man but they only apply these rules to local women, they do not expect expat women to wear the jilbabs. Recently, Sharia Police found a local women had “taken up” with an expat and so she was banished from the community (which was lucky for her, she could have had much worse) and the man was booted out of town. Most NGOs, mine included, have strict rules that prohibit us from dating locals, if we violate this we are subject to termination from our jobs. So of course anyone in a jilbab is like forbidden fruit (and the fruit is juicy here).

The weirdest part of all this is that the local women hate wearing the head wraps (it is so hot you would never want to suffer through added layers). They want to be seen as normal, especially the younger women. I was on the track the other day, just after the breaking of the daily fast, and a group of girls drove by on their scooters (everyone here travels by scooter, you can see a family of four on one scooter) and they all shouted at me in English. They said hello and then proceeded to shout out that they loved me and then giggled like a group of typical girls and sped off. If they had not all been in head scarves I would have thought I was anywhere else in the world (because women always shout that they love me and then speed off).

Young men are the same as the women, they want to go out and party and have fun and would love to land a cutie. They like speaking English and enjoy talking to Americans about America. It’s funny, everywhere you go in the world people are the same, they are just governed by different traditions, laws, beliefs and politicians (that know body trusts). I wonder how much easier Iraq could have been won if we had tried to understand the people we were “freeing” before we started our invasion. Winning hearts and minds should be more than a catch phrase politicians toss around to sound compassionate, it should be a strategy used at home and abroad to reach out to people that need reaching out.

I’m thousands of miles from my home town and yet I had the same conversation about how hard it is to keep a women happy here that I did back home. On Indonesian man even started singing “no women no cry,” by Bob Marley and we all started to sing along, we truly are only separated by lack of understanding.

Up, Up and Away I Go

[So I realize that these titles may need some work in the clever/redundancy area but I’m stuck with them now (and so are you) so get used to it.]

This week is going to be very busy, I am at the office now, Monday the 16th of October, and working to confirm my weekly travel plans. I have a counterpart coming in from DC later today but before she arrives I have lots of donor visit preparations and meetings. Tuesday I am taking a ferry to a nearby island to spend the whole day viewing programs we are taking the donors to see. Wednesday I am taking a helicopter to a small peninsula town (the roads are very bad so helicopter is the only way to get their and back in one day’s travel). Thursday I have to go to Singapore to work out some details with my Visa and will be back in the office on Saturday.

To prepare for all the running around this week I did a lot of running around on the track last week (7 runs in 8 days).

I will talk more about the people and some of the nuances of Banda Aceh during the next post, but that may not come until next week depending on how much free time I have while I am in Singapore. I hope you are all well. I am tired, a bit sick and totally stressed about my insane work load...In otherwords, I am exactly where I love to be (this is so cool).

Shake and Bake

I was writing an email, working on my ever clever goodbyes when the whole office stated to dance from side to side. It lasted all of a few seconds and took me even longer to realize what it was…my first earthquake of the new job. I didn’t realize it was an earthquake until I looked-up and saw all the Indonesian staff flee out of the building—again, it was tinny and only lasted a second but when I realized what had just happened I was sort-of sad and creeped-out. Sad because you could see a weird look of terror on all the faces of the national staff; the fears and scars left by the tsunami had not been visible to me until that instant. Creepy because this was only my third earthquake (the other two came on my last trip to Indonesia in January of 2005). Nothing is more humbling than experiencing the power of earth; the feeling of solid mass moving like the surface of a water-balloon is something that can only be understood if you’ve experienced it.

Three Sheets to the Wind

My maid had enough of the pink sheets. I came home yesterday to see she changed them out to a more boyish color scheme. I don’t know why but a part of me is sad to see the pink go. Mr. Bear and I sort-of grew to like the hearts and the sweet messages written in them, it was pleasant to wake-up to after all. The maid also went through my closet took out all the shirts and ironed them. She then, and I love her for this, neatly paired and folded all my socks, ironed my wife beaters and folded my boxers and rearranged things so it was more convenient for me and all on her own initiative. Mom and Khourey, you may want to take notes on this section.

One More for my Baby and One More for the Road…

I know many of you were wondering about alcohol, I know I was. As you may know Banda Aceh is one of the strictest areas in Indonesia. Restaurants are forced to close their doors during fasting, from sunrise to sunset, and alcohol is always prohibited in Banda Aceh…Sharia Police (SP) strictly enforce Muslim law, especially during Ramadan, in fact, from what I hear, a man was recently accosted by the SP for running around a gym track in shorts, I do find this hard to believe because I have been running the last three days on that same track and seem to be the only person wearing running pants—maybe because it is 90+ degrees with more than 70% humidity, stupid pants…but I digress.

Now for the reality: All of the above is true. But, from what I hear, some expatriates actually find restaurants to eat at during fasting hours. Apparently some restaurants are allowed to be open to assist the internationals, I have heard rumors of bribes, and the such, but I doubt that in a place like Banda Aceh. It is probably just a story told by those who love to tell tales.

These same folklorists speak of how these establishments serve great cappuccinos and good sandwiches, if you can stand the bad service (I doubt I would ever go to such a place, I am too impatient). One such place that had been open for the expats, I’ve been told, was recently forced to close its doors as it became too obvious what was going on so the SP had to crack down. More recently, a guy, not unlike me, went out the other day to a restaurant that looked completely closed during the lunch hour. It had a heavy grey steel door pulled in front of it, leaving only a crack of the glass storefront door visible. Apparently, according to the handsome gentlemen that told this story, a women sitting in the dark waved him and his friend in. Once they squeezed through the steel door and pushed into the empty, darkly lit, restaurant they were escorted upstairs to a wonderland of coffees and sandwiches with expats as far as the eye could see—he had an amazing hazelnut cappuccino, it was like the beans were roasted just for him. That handsome devil couldn’t help but laugh at the silliness of all the cloak and dagger games.

Now for the best of the 007 tales: how to get a drink. These stories are the ones that kill me, I tell them only to pass along how silly and unrealistic it all is.

There is supposedly a store that if you walk in and make eye contact with a man of a certain build and comport that very same man will approach you near the back of the store and while you are “shopping” he listens as you mumble your order (if he is not in you must use a code phrase, which is far less clever than is to be believed). After a few minutes you go to the cash register and buy some supplies and the man will charge you “a bit extra” and you leave the store. Later you find the alcohol in an unmarked box in your back seat/trunk. I could go on about restaurants that have secret buzzers and rooftop alcohol service but stories like these just perpetuate a myth. Apparently, that rooftop wonderland transports you to an entirely different world, a world of fanciful mixed drinks and romantic ambiance, a place that even the most jaded people go to smile and relax, if only a place like that truly existed.

The truth is that Banda Aceh is alcohol free, especially during the holy month of Ramadan! I will cease and desist from advertising these sorts of lies and get back to the realities of this blog, sorry for the diversion.

Maid Aid, Uncovered

I have to admit that I felt really uncomfortable having a maid clean-up after me at first. I went so far as to clean before she would arrive so I wouldn’t be embarrassed. But after talking to some of the local people and realizing what I’m paying her, it really is a lot, I decided I had to break some of my good habits. To do this required a change in tactics with my maid (who is adorable and sort-of looks like an Ewok). I had to tell myself, “what would you do if you were at home with mom?” That was about all it took, since then I have been tossing my clothes on the floor, criticizing how she does my laundry, micro-managing her cleaning (I point out things she could do much better) and for an added touch I threw in a bit of how I treat my big sister, by this I mean I complain that she can never make the kitchen smell clean (K-Dog I bet your house smells like dog right now). Needless to say she loves me. Today I was at the store and splurged on a treat for her, lemon fresh bleach.

I have a lot more gekos than I had thought. Last night I counted 17 of them on the ceiling at one time, there’s an enormous family of them roaming my house, it could be well into the hundreds. I continue to enjoy their company and their noises but they jump out at me about once a day and I always think they are a roach at first, I accidentally sprayed one with bug spray but I think he/she is okay, I splashed some water on he/her and he/she scampered off. The roaches are getting fewer and fewer, my cleaning lady has been working extra hard on the counters, sinks, floors and all dark surfaces. I have bought tons of bug killing gunk and have also put a pox on them.

So I have gotten to the bottom of the stinky water. It smells putrid because it is putrid. It comes from an uncovered well that’s in the house, and just meters from the waste (so gross). All our water comes from this well that is so rancid that the little girl from the Grudge won’t go down it. It is swimming with fecal coliform (all sorts of bacteria), soil deposits, decomposed everything and any other foul thing you can imagine. It is so bad that we’ve been told not to wash our tooth brushes in it, this seems like a pointless suggestion since I am showering and shaving in it, I am taking poop showers and shaving with poopy water (I went for the low brow gross-out factor and do so unapologetically). It will be only a mater of time before I begin using an antibiotic as a prophylaxis for the malaria, dengue and all the other “gifts” awaiting for me on this tropical splendor. Just so you know we do have water coolers with good distilled water, clean water how wonderful it is.

On the Go

Lest you all think I am not working I thought I would mention that I am going to an Avian Influenza conference tomorrow, and continually moving from meeting to meeting. I had conference calls much of last night and will again tomorrow. My HQ is in the US which means when we have conference calls it has to be between 9-11pm my time, not such a fun time to have hour long conference calls, especially contentious ones. The work is going well. I feel like I am still trying to find my rhythm though. I have no supervisor and my position is one with a decent amount of responsibility so I feel like I have to find my beat quickly. It is hard because I have a dotted line of responsibility to the in-country head of office but I am the only person here that has a direct line to HQ in the US. It does create potentially contentious situations as HQ and field offices are always at odds (regardless of the org) and since I see my dotted line boss everyday but will see my direct line maybe twice this year it leaves me both (mostly) unsupervised and in a tug of war for my workload. I think it will all work out, but it sure will make for a fun year.

It is funny, and I may regret saying this later, but a part of me is scared that this year will go by too quickly. I feel like I have so much I want to do and so much that needs to be done I just want to make sure I never lose sight of that. I have seen it happen to people too often. They go away filled with idealism and promise and then do just enough to justify their existence and call it a day. I don’t want to walk away from here with great memories of trips to Bali and crazy parties with homesick expats, I want more than that, I owe these people more than that (uh, oh, is that a soapbox I see before me)…those things are nice, they are, but I want to be judged by the impact not the crater (that was equal parts pompous, clever and lame). Anyways…

I have set-up a series of field visits next week which will be cool. Just as amazing, and even more unbelievable to me, I am interviewing candidates for my personal assistant/translator tomorrow. I am going to have an assistant to edit me, handle my paperwork, and do all my translations, my first ever staff. They will never know it but I will be more anxious and giddy than they are.

…This is four hours later, I inspired myself and just completed a 12 page working document, it is like the Lord was reading along and gave me my rhythm. It is just past 1:30 am here and I am about to upload this blog and get to bed so I can spend tomorrow doing what I do. I am not arrogant enough to believe that this job was meant for me, I am humble enough to realize that I am lucky to be here and grateful for the opportunity to serve.

Rotten roaches, they are just as big as the ones we had in Madagascar, bigger than the geckos and a whole lot uglier--about two inches without the tentacles. This guy spoke a bit of English and is apparently of French citizenry.
This one killed me, I was terrified to take his picture. He kept twitching and squiggling around. It took nearly a whole can of bug spray and about an hour before he slowed down. Eventually he put out his cigarette and died on a copy of Le Monde.

An artistic photo we took using my feet...I nearly knocked myself unconscious with the camera.

 

Dinning room and kitchen

Living room and place where I watch 24 and Scrubs on DVD

Insurance selling, mosquito eating, housemate

His wife, they have about 7 little geckos running around the walls, they are cute but freak me out when they jump out of the trash or whatever else they sneak into

 

Mr. Bear

Mr. Me, blurry but ever the sexy one

My bathroom, she's a snug fit

My balcony

 

My House

After a few days of house hopping, and one really creepy experience, I found what is going to be my home: I have affectionately named it Casa de la Candy Land because it is a pink palace. My room is pink, the house is pink, my single bed is pink, my sheets have strawberries and hearts (of course all pink) and it even has hello kitty dolls with pink purses around the house, who could ask for more! The house has six bedrooms, right now I am the only occupant but a few people are moving in soon. Housing for my NGO is sort-of like the humanitarian's answer to the real world. We even have our own Puck, I have at least one story of total creepiness that brought about my quick move but I will save that for a less public forum, I will say this, to put mom at ease, it was an American that caused the creepiness not the fine people of Indonesia (yea yea).

My missing bags arrived on the 4th and yes Mr. Bear was unpacked just in time for both of us to laugh smugly at the house. I unpacked on Tuesday and it felt great to finally end the in-transit phase.

After unpacking, I went to sit on my bright yellow autamen (with sunflower patterns) and it broke, so I moved over to sit on my bed and it broke, the legs were made of plastic but regardless I feel fat now. Which brings me to my next point: no running so far, there are no sidewalks and the streets are too dangerous to run on. Supposedly there's a runners group that goes every evening around six so I am trying to get their contact information. My GPS watch is just itching to be used.

On Guard

Our housing comes with a maid, a guard and a driver. Neither my maid nor my guard speaks a bit of English so I have taken to grunting and playing charades with them. I am glad, and sad, that I don't have cameras recording our interactions, it really isn't that funny but it is funny. [As a side note, the drivers speak at least a little bit of English, most of them have college degrees but drive because of the lack of opportunity, my NGO has actually promoted some of them into more programmatic responsibilities which I really appreciate.]

So, the first night in Casa de la Candy Land was fine but the security guard came in the house without asking, this was a bit odd to me but I figured I'd let it go because my room requires a separate key that only I have a copy of (and, of course, the guard is about 5 feet tall, 45 years old, weighed about 125 pounds and was armed with only a pack of cigarettes to fend off intruders).

The next day I made certain that the house had an outside bathroom and water supply, which it did, so I could justifiably ask the guard to stay out. Once evening prayers ended, and they had consumed the break fast meal, a new guard arrived and walked right in. I asked him to leave, which he did, but he came back an hour later for no apparent reason. Then, as I was getting ready to call it a night three guards came in; none speak any English. At this point I was ready to blow, again I must add that I tower over these people (one driver asked me if I played American football because I was so big and strong). I kept asking them what they were doing but all they could manage were a series of girlish giggles and then they would flip light switches on-and-off and leave again. It took a while before I realized what was going on: they were checking to see if I was going to sleep so they could watch TV and sleep in one of the empty rooms. They have been "guarding" this house for a while and became very comfortable with its amenities while it was empty.

Needless to say night three was very pleasant, we have fired the guards and I have never felt safer or more at home. I found-out that the guards were from another organization, one of suspect contribution to local trainings. My NGO will be brining on its own security detail shortly but in the meantime I live in an amazingly safe place so do not fret (again mom, yea yea).

My Cozy Little Bathroom

I will avoid the graphics but should say this, what goes down sort-of spills to the side rather than following the natural pulls of gravity. The landlord and a repairman just dropped-by to look, grunt and play charades with me while we all cross our arms and look knowingly at the toilet--it's sort-of like watching me try to fix a car. I have also noticed that the water smells putrid, like burnt formaldehyde and hair, nothing like feeling grosser after a shower than before.

Say what you will, I love Casa de la Candy Land and it would take an army to drag-me-out.

Running Towards the Purpose

I know you want to hear more about my work, and I promise that will come, but for right now I want to relish the newness of this place. I give you my word that in just a few short weeks you will be visualizing my soapbox as you read along.

Monday will be my first day in the office without the woman I'm replacing, she left on Sunday, the 8th, that is when I see my job truly starting. Saturday night was her going away party. We spent the night drinking and dancing. It was the one week anniversary for me in Banda Aceh and it was amazing how much had changed. I felt less like the new guy and more like the guy with something to say. My jet lag had past and that sense of chaos was replaced by the confidence and comfort level that I always strive for. We partied into the night, my driver came and took me home around two, I then made food and watched Scrubs on DVD.

Sunday felt like my day. The hand-over was complete and I knew that on Monday my mission would begin so I decided it was time to get back to my version of normal. I woke-up at ten and walked around my empty house, getting to know its character. I made coffee with my coffee-press for the first time and it was the most amazing cup I can remember ever having. I played some music and danced like an idiot in my living room, the tile floors are perfect for sliding around on your knees. Then came time for me to reclaim the only hobby I have ever had.

I unpacked my GPS watch, heart rate monitor, running shoes, lucky running shirt and my running pants. Since this is a Muslim country, and follows strict Shari a law, it is important that I do not run in shorts. It is about 90 degrees today and humidity is an ever present part of life here but this was my time. Anyone who knows me knows that I get insanely determined about something when I make up my mind, I was going run. You all also know that I get crazy sweaty when I run so just imagine me in track pants, I was a sponge.

My driver took me to the only safe place in town to run, an outdoor track—not too bad, each lap is .25 miles, I went during evening prayers and ran to the sounds of Islamic verse. I went just over 5.5 miles but more importantly I felt so normal, so at home. Kids stood by the track giving high-fives after each lap (while practicing their English on me), cars would drive by with people shouting hello, men would try to race me, all I knew was that I was running and it felt great. For a while I forgot I was on the other side of the world, when I did remember it was during my own prayers of thanks.

Banda Aceh has its challenges and will, I am sure, continually reveal new obstacles to me along the way. I will be working straight through until after Christmas, I already am spending more time in the office than in the home and the feeling of complete isolation can be felt in even the most welcoming of crowds. Yet, today as I ran and sweated on a track in the oppressive heat and tired night sky I couldn’t help but wonder why I was so lucky. I also knew exactly why I was here and exactly what I am suppose to do.

I have begun my first week here in Banda Aceh, Indonesia, and feel it is time that I enter the world of the wired and begin my first blog. Shortly I will be adding pictures to compliment my less than stellar prose. This blog will be for friends and family, a way to keep in touch without me having to send those miserable group emails. This way you can chose to check in and read my blabbering incoherent take on things or you can chose to skip it, there is no obligation to read and I do not become part of your spam (but remember, this is not meant to replace the personal emails).

To maintain autonomy over this blog I will refrain from making specific references to the organization that I am working for, rather, I will call it my ‘NGO’ or some variation of this.

I do not know how often I will update; it will have a lot to do with time, energy and the amount of worthwhile stories I have to tell. I hope you enjoy this and maybe together we can make me sound more normal (and less like the tool that this first entry makes me sound).

For most who know me you know that Mr. Bear is the one consistency in my life: from childhood to undergrad, from undergrad to Peace Corps (PC), from PC to NY, from NY to DC (and Graduate school), from DC to Indonesia, he has always come along for the ride. So off to Me and Mr. Bear: Man-Up…side down.

The Flight

I left my apartment, a sad, sad goodbye to a great little place with a world of memories, and headed to the airport at 3:30pm on Thursday the 28th of September. I made it to the check-in counter at 4, they finished checking me in at 6:30, and there was no line. My 2 extra bags, and a trip with 5 different legs to it, forced them to create some new math-formula for charging me (approximately 435$ for the two bags) and required them to manually “organize” luggage tracking tags. They actually used tape to “laminate” the tags. I was a bit annoyed but at least I would have time to grab a water before I hoped on the plane…Oops, no, I had to pay the excess baggage and the credit card reader was not reading…so 7:00pm and I am off to my 7:10pm check-in, as you all know I have limitless patience so this was of course no problem for me. I dashed through the airport, passing a shifty-eyed man who was trying to smuggle 50 cans of tuna-fish on the plane in his carry on and was inexplicable let-on after answering the inevitable question of why: “I really like tuna fish,” the man was flying to Newark.

I am tired, cranky and hungry but I am in-line to board…crash, wiz, bang. Thunder! All flights were grounded. To cut to the chase a storm grounded my flight. Since I now had time, I went to the duty free shop where I managed to break a bottle of 60$ cologne and get in an argument with a counter girl who did not think I should be allowed to make duty free purchases: it ended with me pointing at her and very gently saying repeatedly: “you are rude, very rude madam,” until I started to giggle and had to flee. Karma! The next flight was canceled. This was very bad because I was going from Newark to Singapore at 11pm and this now looked impossible. I was back in line, an hour-and-a-half later it was my turn at the Continental desk. The young woman could not have been sweeter, she loved the NGO I was working for and did everything she could to get me on a plane.

She found me a flight on United. That meant racing to the baggage claim getting all 250lbs of baggage and racing across the airport to check in at the United counter. They too created their own math (approximately 655$) and another series of homemade baggage claim tags and I was off, racing through security for a second time, to catch the final boarding call for a flight to London. Desperately hungry and tired I now was seated and off!

In London I had about an hour to race through the airport to grab my connecting flight to Malaysia but that flight was great. I was able to sleep for the first time in nearly a week. Well rested, for the first time since the whole process began I started to contemplate what I was doing and where I was going—I was on my way to a new life and a new world.

The Kuala Lumpur airport, in Malaysia, is one of the best I have ever been, they had every kind of store imaginable and I bought some great cologne at duty free—word of warning, they work on commission and every time I went in I had to say no thank-you on average about six times. Seven relaxing hours later I was off to Medan smelling good and looking happy…

Medan is the worst airport ever. I was pawed, my bags were pawed, I was pushed and pulled by everyone and it smelled like a mixture of old body odor, stale cigarettes and ear wax. Of course I had less than an hour to go through customs; it would be much easier this time since two of my bags did not arrive. I was so drained and stressed that it was almost relieving not to have to haul my extra bags along through that miserable airport.

After about 20 minutes of endlessly being poked and touched (as well as being bathed in that stench) I was on my way to Banda Aceh. An hour later an angel appeared holding a sign with my name on it and a car waiting. It was 5pm on Saturday the 30th of September.

Home Sweet Home

That angel was a 35 year old Indonesian man but standing just a few short feet from him was the women I was here to “replace.” She took me to my temporary house for the night where I was able to hear the sounds of prayers being blared in Arabic on the loud speakers, you can hear them in all parts of Banda Aceh year round, yet they hold a specific importance during this holy month of Ramadan. It’s a soothing sound; the rhythm of the prayers has a trancelike quality that encourages reflection. We are in the good parts of Ramadan, it is early so the fasting has not taken its toll on the people yet.

Once in my new room I was able to shower and use a non-moving bathroom for the first time in days. Too anxious to sleep I called the girl I was succeeding and she sent a car to pick me up for a little dinner party at her place. It was an expat dinner party for a few people that are leaving. We had crab, prawns, chicken, spinach, beef and a whole fish. The eight of us dinned on an amazing meal prepared by a girl who works for another NGO in the area. We followed this by several drinks and a tarot card reading by our drunken cook. It was a nice, if not odd, welcoming to Banda Aceh.

The next night was Sunday and an office goodbye for the women who was I was replacing, they showered her with the kind of love and attention that only comes from genuine appreciation, it was clear that she was truly respected and loved in her office. After having spent a few days with her I know why, I find myself lamenting the fact that she is going—she is a special person and I thank her for all that she has done for me, this has to be one of the easiest transitions I have ever witnessed.