Why No One Else Gets It

Why don’t you just teach in America, they say? 

There are little nuggets here just like there. You’ll get paid more, they say. They are cute here just like there. 

Why don’t you just adjust, they say? 

Well, you just don’t get it, I say. 

You haven’t walked to class where kids run at you, clinging on you full force, with such excitement to see you. 

You haven’t heard 50 kids uproar in unison, “Good Morning Teacher.”

Yes, there are kids in America. But they aren’t the same. They see teachers like you everyday. They don’t wait expectingly to have that white girl grace their class two times a week. They don’t appreciate you as much. 

Why don’t you appreciate the luxuries here, they say?

Well, you haven’t felt the luxury of simplicity, I say. 

You haven’t lived somewhere with more motorcycles than cars, where a family of five can fit on two wheels. 

You haven’t understood that meals should cost $1. 

Yes, there are people who lavishly live in America. But they aren’t the same. They look at $30 and think ‘wow, this won’t last me all day’. They don’t look to save and extend what little they have, they take loans and pay with credit. They don’t just get by, they are always craving more. 

Why don’t you want the American Dream, they say? 

Well, you haven’t lived abroad, I say. 

You haven’t traveled across the world to find strangers more friendly than your neighbors. 

You haven’t been humbled by another culture’s ability to spread kindness instead of hatred. 

Yes, there are dreams in America. But they aren’t the same. They focus on excess. They don’t think about wealth in terms of well-being but rather in terms of money. They don’t see the beauty in the present. 

Well, you just don’t get it, they say. 

And that’s exactly it. The longer I’m home in America, the more I don’t understand this life. The longer I’m home in America, the more I want to go away. 

Why don’t you just go back, they say?

Well, it’s not that easy, I say. 

Six Weeks In Indonesia: The Bali Experience

When I was younger and I thought of Indonesia, I thought Bali. I thought fancy beachfront property and yoga resorts. I thought Eat, Pray, Love.

Now, at age 25, I know Indonesia is much more than Bali. Bali is just one of Indonesia’s thousands of islands.

___________________________

When we started our trip, when I landed in the Denpasar airport, I was a bit angry at how westernized and developed this island was. The first time I visited Indonesia, back in October in Sumatra, my airport experience was so different. I felt culture shock. There, I was out of place, naked wearing shorts in a Muslim country. So this time around, when I was better prepared, I rolled my eyes at the ignorant women wearing backless shirts and mini skirts with too high heels. I didn’t feel like I was walking into Indonesia. I felt like I was walking into Hawaii. I guess I’d failed to realize how Hollywood Bali has become.

My idea of travel extends far beyond relaxation with sea, sun, and sand. I want to feel something. I crave the shock. I don’t like walking down a street with a stream of other tourists passing shops designed to absorb tourism dollars with stockpiles of Buddha statues. So, our first days in the popular destination of Ubud, with its famous rice terraces and monkey temple, did not amuse me. Sure, I was interested in the whole health food movement. But I wasn’t wowed by a viewpoint lined by cafes where handfuls of travelers took the same photo in front of the green backdrop. And I wasn’t wowed by the exploitation of monkeys in the forest where tourists paid to hold a banana so they could get a notorious photo of a primate on their shoulder.

So, realizing this place didn’t match our vibe, we quickly moved on. We found our type of destination that really felt like home-a little surfer town called Canggu. I’d been introduced to the place by word of mouth from friends I met while volunteering in Thailand. With their wisdom, our whole Bali experience changed for the better.

I was able to reconnect with one of the girls, who was still traveling with her boyfriend, at a neat hostel with a responsible tourism focus. Here, at Farmer’s Yard, it was like we had roommates.  The growing garden extended into a great common space and a kitchen equipped with rap battles and instrumental beats. As a base for daytrips to Immigration for our visa extension and another coastal town, we’d really started to find our groove in our Indonesia trip. We spent the days exploring by motorbike and relaxing in the company of newfound friends. We were invited to the neighbors wedding. We chilled out and appreciated the waves, watching our friends ride while the sun was setting.

And then we were introduced to an island off the mainland. An island I want to scream on the top of the rooftops because it’s so amazing. But I know it should be kept secret, hidden from the commercialization and development the rest of Bali feels. I’ve heard it’s what Bali was like 60 years ago, before tourism hit like a wrecking ball. All I can say is that it was true paradise.

We arrived without accommodation, purposefully, knowing that our friends had slept on the beach. When we got to the beautiful bay, with the sun setting and our tummies rumbling, we had a little unease that there was no restaurant. But we were offered coconuts and cup a noodle soup, and soon invited to sleep under a hut. The son and father started moving a table for us to lie on, cushioned with a yoga mat. And when they realized it was a little short, they grabbed another table to make it just right.  

The hospitality and kindness was off the charts. Later that night, the son was admiring my many bracelets and pointed at one saying, “Mine?” I knew the language barrier was making his statement come off much stronger than he meant. And for a split second, I selfishly thought there was no way I was giving up one of my prized possessions. But then I thought about how willing they were to provide us a place to stay, and how I needed to return the favor, even if that meant letting go of one of my memories I carry on my wrist. So I handed it over with a smile. And was glad to see later in the week that he wore it with pride, showing it off to friends.

Although when I relayed this story to my brother he called me a hobo, I promise you we only slept this way one night. The rest of the days we joined the efforts of a bird conservation group on the island. In exchange for a couple hours of manual labor in the morning, we received many discounts from accommodation to ferry to rentals. The best part was a limitless supply of aloe to remedy our sun kissed skin!

In this beautiful place we spent the days motor biking up and around the picturesque island, with no high rises in sight. The coast was lined with seaweed farms and the streets were drying racks for their crop. We were directed by village women to hidden treks and secluded coves. We snorkeled coral reefs and climbed up a floating rock. We passed by a ceremony where the locals cheered us on like celebrities. We finished the nights off listening to the guitar, and experiencing the lunar eclipse which legend said was a faceless monster eating the moon. It was a truly unique experience on an island with only a handful of westerners.

                                                         _________________________

We ended our trip in Bali, back in Canggu where we were welcomed with familiar faces as if we had headed home. So maybe the trip didn’t start off how I imagined. But I think it all happened just right, because I was meant to have a realization about the type of travel that tickles my soul. I was meant to realize that even in an overdeveloped, tourist saturated destination, off the beaten track treasures can be found. However big of a stigma Bali has become, there’s still a true gem of Bali somewhere in there.

The Touch of a Healer

The moment she put her hand on my heart, I wanted to throw it off. I felt an immediate pull of energy, and I didn't want to feel exposed.

I didn't want to let go.

I had just returned from a chanting ceremony where the energy in the room reverberated through my body. There was an intense love in the air, and a feeling of infinite freedom. But when the lady on the left side began to recite her mantra, I immediately felt hurt. I was overwhelmed with sadness.

In listening to this sadness, whether it came from outside or within I was unsure. All I noticed was my unease and my unwillingness to sit with it. I just wanted the song to be over, I just wanted to halt this immense feeling of pressure on my chest. But the song kept going and there I sat, fidgety and unable to let the feeling pass. The heaviness loomed on me, and I didn't want to let it fully in.

A new player began their song, and I felt like I could finally breath again. I got into it, and moved and jibed with the uplifting beats. But I couldn't help but think that moments ago I had felt imprisoned and resistant. 

                                                                    ______________________

I don't like to feel sad. I don't like to let my guard down. But when you've come to a point in awakening, you can't help but notice all your feelings. I can't help not to, at least.

So there I sat. Hours later. In a new space. Puzzled by my unwillingness to let the sadness in, or rather out. Unwilling to let my heart break. Unwilling to let my heart go. I couldn't even remember what we had been chanting about, was it Gopala? Was it Govinda? What were the words that had made me feel so broken?

And then I glanced up and saw the world map on the wall, in the living room of a friend of a friend. I looked at where I was, Australia, and I looked at where I was born, America. I looked at where all my family were. I looked at where all my friends were. The distance became so much more apparent. I imagined dotting the globe with all the people I've come to love. Scattered around the world.

While my surrounding company spoke, I dazed off and wondered what if I had stayed put in the USA? What if I had never left the confines of the United States border? Would all those dots move closer, blanketing me rather than spreading out thin? Would I feel more comforted?

And in that moment of coulda, woulda, shoulda she placed her hand on my heart. The hand I had wanted to tear off my skin.

______________________

I'd met her when I was 19 years old. Her name was Gini.

My best friend and I had come to volunteer on her biodynamic farm in New South Wales. The moment I had seen a picture of Gini and her partner, Pete, on the workaway website I knew this was the loving place I wanted to go. I felt a connection to the words on the page, the description of a place of healing. I didn't even know what healing meant back then, but it sure enticed me.

Pete introduced us to the land, where he shared his practice of speaking to the vegetables and handling them with compassion and care. Gini showed us a gentle type of yoga called Dru and opened up about her experience with Reiki. It was all so new to me, but it all felt so natural.

Days were spent working, laughing, absorbing, relaxing. We suntanned by the lake. We hiked to the river. We journeyed to the tepee. And within a short two weeks, we were gone.

Gini and I kept in touch over the 5 years, not consistently, but the connection lasted. And in some moments of my life, at just the right times, she'd appear on my news feed as a beautiful reminder to the work being done at Ingelara.

She'd opened up my spiritual genes without me even realizing.

So in my voyage back to Australia, who did I know I needed to see but her. Her, who placed a hand on my heart without me even verbalizing much of my pain. Her, who kept that hand there until the tears slowly broke through. Her, who saw my struggle and opened it up wide.

Her, who recognized my role as a child of the universe.

It became clear while staring at that map, with tears leaking from my eyes end, with her hand hovering my chest, that I had attributed heartbreak with my nomadic lifestyle. And that I would have to let go. There was no going back, that was clear.

Because when you find your role in this life, when you really figure it out, it's what you have to do. You can question it, yes. You can be unsettled, yes. You can toss it aside, not really.

And in that moment, the guilt, the pressure, the doubt, it all seemed to ease.

I let go and I let be.

Walking Into Wilderland

Off the highway the broken path began. The first crossroad came earlier than expected as I managed my way over a broken bridge holding my breath, hoping it wouldn’t be it’s moment of collapse. And then the uphill battle began. My black yoga leggings, a size too large kept cinching low just as my fake ray bans slid down my nose in sweaty drips.

On any other day, roaming around the landscape, the walk would have been enjoyable. But with inappropriate clothing for a hot day, a 20 kg pack strapped to my back, and an uncomfortable side bag weighed down with my “essential” technology gadgets, the ascent was frustrating.

I had to remind myself that easy paths lead to ordinary destinations.

I had to remind myself that this is what I asked for, somewhere extreme, somewhere extraordinary.

I’d just finished spending the past two weeks in pure luxury, traveling to Australia and New Zealand with my parents. After being separated from them for ten months, my Mom and Dad had decided it was time to visit their nomadic daughter across the globe.

For me, it was a sudden change in perspective and pace, as I’d spent the prior four months backpacking and volunteering through Southeast Asia. I was used to sleeping in open-aired huts, friends beds, and hostel dormitories. With them, I’d find home in studio apartments, queen size mattresses, and flat screen TVS. I was used to public transportation, in the form of buses, trucks, and tuk tuks. With them, I’d be graced with airplanes, private cars, and yachts.

Although sudden, I so easily adapted to this opposite spectrum of life. Yes, I’m a backpacker, but I was definitely born a princess. Just as easily as I can eat a $1 toastie from 7-11, I can also prepare gourmet sandwiches with hummus and deli meat and tomato and cheese and onion and salt and pepper. I can sit in hundred(s) dollar seats watching professional tennis players like Venus Williams. I can snap tourist photos from the top of a double decker bus. I can take tours of the Sydney Opera House and absorb the history of a spectacular monument. I can order dinner without cringing at the prices- yes appetizer, yes dessert.

I could so easily transition into royalty, but in reversing the order and greeting the rugged life once again, I just wanted to give up.

As I bent down to tie my shoes, that 20kgs tested my balance and I went backwards sliding down the hill. Unbuckling my cargo, and throwing it aside, I found shade besides the trail and guzzled what was left of my water. I had managed to walk five minutes before ultimate frustration had taken effect.

Still, my only option was to move forward. I couldn’t let myself be that pathetic girl who admitted defeat by leaving my pack at the roadside shop. This walk was going to happen whether it took me until nightfall.

As negative thoughts rambled in my monkey mind, I held my breath and let out a deep exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Within minutes of mindful breathing, I recognized what was missing from this ‘disaster’ was a pure appreciation of the present moment.

Ok, I said, I’m twenty-four years old. I’m in New Zealand. I’m walking to a sustainable community.

And just like that, I began to trust the process. Doubt passed. Calm entered.

No, my pack did not miraculously become lighter. Actually, it became heavier as I decided moving my side bag into the backpack would make my stride a little less cumbersome. No, the heat did not retreat. No, the ascent did not level out.

The conditions of the journey remained the same. It was simply my intention of the journey that had changed. And it made all the difference.

An hour later I’d arrived. I had withstood some falls. I had enjoyed some roadside plum snacks. I had made it.

Strangers embraced me with hugs as I watched a pregnant lady walk barefoot with her belly exposed. One of my first introductions was to the composting toilet, where our human shit would transform into food for the soil. I would be living in the “Love Caravan” and I was allowed to eat whatever I could harvest from the garden.  

I had arrived to Hippieville, Wilderland they called it. I was exhausted. 

I unpacked my bag pleased that I wouldn’t be carrying it around, at least not for a while. I looked out over the bushland and on to the estuary.

And I smiled.

It's (Not) Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

"So it looks like I'll be spending Christmas alone this year... on a boat,"  I paused as I spoke to my brother.

"That sure sounds like fun," I heard in a sarcastic tone over the phone.

And my holiday decision, which I had already put so much thought to, was hit like a dagger.

My brother and I don't really see eye to eye on my life approach. As I've ran away from my family, and moved around the globe to never look back.

There has been no other time on my 9 months abroad that I've questioned why I moved away than now. Now, during the Holiday season.

Thanksgiving skype chats have passed where I got to virtually see the whole family together. Pictures of Christmas trees and reindeer sweaters have swamped my news feed.

I really do miss home.

But then my life continues over here. The fear of missing out at home disappears as I go running after little Laos nuggets. As I play hide-and-seek behind their windows and get invited to sit with the husband and wife for water. Managing a grown up conversation, all the while playing hand games with their children. They tell me it isn't often the little ones get to play and listen to a farang girl. So I say "hellooooo" in a drawn out way that sets them into laughter as they mimic me.

I can be completely in my head and in regret about not being on the other side of the globe. And then beautiful cross-cultural exchanges happen. And I become aware that whatever I'm doing, it's working. I'm feeling connected to the world and I'm happy.

So this year, my Christmas will not be spent nestled with my kitty by the fireplace. My Christmas will not have a tree glittered with ornaments. This season I will not write a letter to Santa. This season I will not open gifts nor wait in anticipation for surprised expressions.

So this year, my Christmas will be spent rocking along the riverside with my backpack by my side. My Christmas will have a boat stocked with strangers. This season I will celebrate the day like every other. This season it will just be me.

When you decide to live abroad, you pay a certain price. You set a distance from yourself and those you love to afford the luxury of the foreign. You make the decision that it might be months, or even years before you'll get to see those friends and family you once interacted with on a daily basis. 

So here I am, choosing the life of travel. Choosing a home called Thailand populated by people who speak a language I barely understand. Choosing to spend the season in a way most of the world's population will never experience.

I dial the phone twice, as once never seems to give them enough time to get there.

"Is that you, Nora?" he says as my mom laughs in the background.

We talk about what he's done that day, and I talk about what I've got planned. Mom is always asking if I'm safe. Or if I've gotten a tattoo.

And the tender subject comes up for my plans this holiday. I explain I'll be on my own for Christmas as I make my way to my friends for New Years.

As if he knows I need a good laugh he replies, "Well if you aren't going to be with us for Christmas, what does it really matter anyway?"

"No one knows you better than yourself. And if you've gotta be alone on Christmas, then you've gotta be."

Bukit Lawang: Where We Were Welcomed Like Family

After living in Thailand for five months, I’ve come to expect smiles and kindness. I’ve come to expect that when I pass a grin, I should receive one in return. I’ve come to expect special glances because of my snow-white complexion.

So when my two friends and I set out to explore the country of Indonesia, what did I expect? Well, I sure didn’t expect to be embraced quite like this.

Flying into the dirty, busy, overbearing city of Medan had me feeling insecure about my decision to explore this country. Gangs of men surrounded us in hopes to be our transport out of this hellhole. I looked down at my shorts and immediately regretted my comfortable choice in wardrobe. In this very Muslim environment, every inch of skin was well noticed.

That night, our decision to quench hunger with cup of noodles turned into lines of men gawking from the window of the Indomart. The following day, our drive out of town continued the terror as our driver overcame semi-trucks and tested speed limits on unpaved roads.

All of this craziness left me holding on for dear life.

But when we finally arrived, my ears were pleasantly surprised with a quiet embrace. There was no hectic commotion, no horns beeping. Instead, as we walked to our accommodation, there was ‘halos’ and smiles that seemed to make sounds for as far as the grin stretched. The powerful river was the soundtrack for the town. And the children, with their incessant desire for high fives, made it all feel like a movie.

Little did we know, that within days, this beautiful jungle town would become our beautiful jungle town.

Our very first night, we saw real tradition when we were invited to a wedding. Everything was so fresh and different, like the concept of dropping our dinner plates and empty waters on the ground. A performance of witches and lady boys had the little ones dashing around and hiding in pure terror. It was really cute to see how into it the kids got, and how entertained the elders were. And then, we got invited on stage. I knew it was the appropriate thing to agree, but the entire time I couldn’t help but laugh at the awkwardness. Three western girls swaying on stage with a handful of Indonesian women, while the rest of the crowd sat in their seats and watched.

And then there were the moments that will be stained in my memory forever. Like seeing the little boy who had rescued us on our tubing adventure earlier that day. I offered him a Mentos, and that little rascal took off with the whole roll. Or the grandma in the corner who motioned me to close my legs, as I often sit like a boy. Or the bride with a snake wrapped around her neck, pleasantly surprised and honored by our presence.

Even after a high of such cultural welcoming, our night was not over. We visited newfound friends, whose musical talents had enticed us that afternoon. Little by little, the circle of musicians increased, as did the instruments. Twelve men singing their hearts out and three Americans beaming uncontrollably- that’s what set the scene. And when it became too late for the noise in the neighborhood, we didn’t just pack up and leave, we all packed up and headed to the river.

It was beautiful to be in a moment where the fun was never ending. Where tomorrow was tomorrow and today was today.

Off to the jungle

Bukit Lawang is one of the few places in the world where Orangutans can be viewed in the wild. Our guide, Joni, led us on our trek and took us on a daunting exploration of monkeys. It was amazing to hear that his English language came from the jungle, from communicating with tourists and learning from his fellow guide friends. Maybe he couldn’t read or write, but he spoke English better than most Thais I’ve come in contact with.

Our first viewing of the Orangutan was a Momma and her baby. We had come across an unusual sighting of a fight between her and the black gibbon monkey. You’d think because of the Orangutans stature that they’d pick on these little black ones more often. But gibbons regularly travel in large packs, so the Momma was taking her chances; this was a very special event.

Since Orangutans are constantly moving, it was not an easy feat to come across these majestic creatures. The guides were whistling to each other throughout the jungle, occasionally placing phone calls regarding sightings. They are truly a family of jungle men sharing their lucky crossings. We were sliding down hillsides, skipping across rivers, scaling the side of tree trunks all on the hunt for the orange humanlike monkey.

In another sighting, we passed by a shirtless guide who motioned to us above. Perched in his nest lay a sly Orangutan, swinging a dark green shirt in the air. He’d snaked it off the guides back! We watched for a half hour as he attempted to put the shirt on, almost achieving to pull his furry head through only to take it off and use it as a blanket. It was pure, natural entertainment.

The jungle was a very, very special place. We shared games and tricks. We drank Bintang in the moonlight. We showered at the waterfall. We learned some of the Bahasa language. We laughed, a lot. We noticed how greatly the locals cared for the forest. How diligent they were in keeping it clean. How well respected this sacred place really was.

We dropped our role as tourists, and quickly absorbed our destiny as jungle sisters.

The days that followed continued this combination of adventure and authenticity. We took an hour-long raft down the river, passing grazing water buffalo and families doing their daily cleaning. We drank tea and ate scrumptious fried treats. We climbed the top of a van and took a ride back to town with this bird’s eye view of paradise. It didn’t matter if it was raining, we were singing and enjoying every experience. We hopped on motorcycles and toured nearby villages. We guzzled down egg noodle soup by the riverside.

 While crossing a bridge to a waterfall, I was stopped midway by an Indonesian woman wearing a muay thai boxing shirt. She touched my blonde hair, asking if I was American. Immediately after my response, she was pushing her son towards me, laughing, and suggesting we get married. As I started to laugh as well, she reached for my hand and expressed her sincerity. She wanted me to marry her son and teach the family English. I gave gratitude and laughed away the forward proposal. They took a picture with me and we exchanged Facebook accounts before parting ways.

We were not just checking things off our “to-do list”, we were experiencing genuine cultural integration.

Our friends from Thailand came for a visit and we were able to share this place, a place we had fallen in love with, with a new set of eyes. The tribe had extended, at least for a short time, to six girls with striking Balinese red flowers in our hair. We climbed crevices and clambered over slippery rocks, with bouts of laughter echoing on the walls. We all gazed in amazement in this cave with millions of bats screeching overhead. We shared a barbeque and welcomed everyone to our porch. While sitting in a circle, I had one of those moments of true appreciation as my friends interacted with our Indonesian friends, all while a Bukit Lawang version of “Country Road” strummed in the background.

We departed from this beautiful village with a sentimental send off just like the cinemas. As our van drove away, three Indonesian boys waved in the distance, and Emily turned to us and muttered, “I think I’m going to cry, guys.”

We knew we’d found a place quite like any other. We knew we’d return.

But little did we know, how soon we’d be back.