Ants in my Pants (And Other Reasons to Smile)

It was the day of Idul Fitri. This day marks the end of Ramadan where Muslims in Indonesia and around the world celebrated one of their most important holidays. In Indonesia, families travel to their hometowns and break their month long fast together. They also visit their friends and neighbours to apologize for things they have done in the past and may do in the future.

This day also happens to mark the day I had my first real emotional breakdown of culture shock as a Peace Corps Volunteer.

The morning started rather serene. Sure, fireworks, parades of shouting people and drums accompanied by a night-long call to prayer kept me from getting the best of sleeps, but I managed to wake up in a fair disposition. I drank some water, did some yoga, and heated up a hot kettle for my mandi. I tried to relax for the exciting yet predictably stressful day ahead full of dozens of plates of food insisted upon me, hundreds of photos and stares from the entire village pointed in my direction, and... a dress. My co-teacher/sister-in-law took me shopping two weeks ago to buy me a new dress for Indul Fitri. While it is customary for all Indonesian women to buy a new dress for the holiday, anyone who knows me well knows that I abhor shopping for clothes, especially in crowded Indonesian malls (it turns out). This was taken to a whole new level when trying to pick out a dress from a vast selection of what seemed to be every rejected full-bodied bridesmaids dress from the last 40 years. I had no idea there were that many shades of ugly. But I had appreciated the gesture and finally picked a dress to wear. The one which was waiting for me after my mandi, along with a matching hijaab (headscarf) which will, after countless polite corrections to my host family, make me look DIFFERENTLY beautiful, not MORE beautiful. 

So I breathed deeply and let the warm water wash over me finding a foundation of serenity to stand on... just in time for my 70-something year old bapak to enter into the connected mandi stall next to me and proceed to take the loudest most graphic-sounding shits imaginable. Upoon hearing this, I rinsed off as fast as possible and almost slipped in my haste to get out of there before the smell hit me. With nothing but a towel on, I scuttled into the spare bedroom next to mine where my dress was hanging, waiting for me.

I take a moment in my underwear to examine the dress in an attempt to see the beauty in it. I imagined what most Indonesian women must be feeling at this moment, putting on their new and special dress on this most important holiday. 

After I muster up enough acceptance, I put the dress over my head and took a look at myself in the mirror. I was surprised that while my first impression of my appearance seemed rather ho-hum, I still seemed to be getting chills... a tingling sensation engulfed my body. I looked down at my hand to see an ant which I promptly flicked off. Then another, and another... a trail of them... no, a cluster... crawling along my arm, my legs, my neck... an entire colony living inside the dress! I was trapped! Surrounded! After a moment of hesitation at the horror of having to pull this dress back over my head and hair to take it off, I threw it across the room and invented a few new contemporary dance moves. A spastic strip tease as they had made their way into my bra, and yes, my underwear. Yes there were, in fact, ants in my pants.

After a good ten minutes of panicked brushes and yelps, I seemed to have gotten them all. I looked down at my hands to see the smeared carnage on my fingertips. I looked down further to see the undulating puddle of them on the floor that had just violated my body. I had to get out of that room, so after a few violent shakes, I managed to put my underwear and that hellish dress back on my body. I came out shaking and crying and told my sister what had happened. She, too, was surprised at the quantity of ants she had to sweep out of the house.

Can you see the lingering horror in my eyes?

She shook out the hijab as a few more stragglers scattered away and proceeded to wrap and pin it tightly to my head. I looked in the mirror at my fully covered self from head to toe and thought, "If I didn't feel trapped and surrounded by the ants, I feel trapped and surrounded now." It took everything in me to not lash out as my Ibu scooped me the umpteenth wad of rice and room temperature meat sludge on my plate and told me I look even more beautiful and more gamuk (fat). By the time I left the house, it was only 6:30 in the morning.

As we headed for the field for the service, my family made a lot of jokes about my ant incident as I tugged at my slightly too small and increasingly constricting hijaab, still feeling sporadic tingles, phantom ants (or not), throughout my body. 

We arrived at the field to find hundreds of Muslim villagers setting up for prayer. The men in the front, close to the stage, and the women in the back with the small children to watch. I watched bitterly as the men passed in their short sleeved shirts and small hats, with their arms and necks free to move and breathe freely in the increasing temperature of the morning. Simultaneously, I watched further back, as the women started donning themselves with yet an extra layer of garment (in addition to their dress and hijaab) over their bodies and heads to wear for prayer. As we walked through the settling crowd, the stares compiled and collected on me from every direction despite my attempts to shake them off. 

Down in front!

Finding our spot on the grass, we laid out our rugs as more and more stares from women were sticking to me from every direction. This is of course, is a daily occurrence as a Peace Corps volunteer. We inherently have celebrity status in our respective villages. And while I have gotten used to it... for the most part, I have never experienced it in such a concentrated situation and in such a shaken and vulnerable context. I usually handle the stares by smiling, waving or saying hello. On this day however, I couldn't even make eye contact. I felt stuck in the muck of their sticky stares. Luckily, I had two of my nephews to focus on, Firus who was an adorable 4 year old, and Sultan, an even more adorable baby: The only sense of comfort and familiarity I found in the moment. I was asked to keep an eye on them during the prayer, which I was more than happy to do. 

As everyone stood up and the prayer began, I was hoping to find some kind of serenity, whether in the sounds of the call or the motions of the villagers. All I could feel was relief that I was able to stay seated on the ground where the people were no longer able to stare at me. Except for the occasional glances from Firus as he squirmed and tumbled on the rugs in an attempt to entertain himself. And from Sultan, who was deep in his own kind of baby meditation in my arms as I gave him his bottle. I found it was easier to find serenity there with him than with the crowds of devout people standing around me in every direction. He was my eye in this storm.

The best part of my day

Just then, the prayer progressed as a sweeping sea of standing people bent down to the ground with their foreheads to their rugs. But not everyone. All the little children, boys and girls scattered throughout the masses remained standing, squirming, playing and watching as their moms gently pushing them out of their way in order to bow. The sea of people methodically sitting up and bowing down, like the tide. Only the children (and myself) remained.

Stand tall, little man.

After the ceremony we all greeted each other with the phrase, "Mohon Maaf lahir dan bantin." Which literally means "Please forgive (me) outwardly and internally” It seemed a bit odd to have complete strangers to ask for forgiveness from me and vice versa. But it seemed to be in the same vain as the “Peace be with you” in Catholic mass. So I continued in that fashion.

We then migrated deeper into the village to visit some of my hosts extended family. At this point, my attitude was still very stiff from my morning and processing the mass village ceremony I had just experienced… on top of the fact that the hijaab I was wearing was still mildly strangling me. While I understand Muslim women choose to wear this and enjoy it, believing that they are more beautiful with it on, I only felt oppression. That is my gut interpretation of this hot stifling thing surrounding my face. I did not feel free. And I find it hard to imagine what these women around me must be feeling too. 

So I found it especially hard that day to be social and cordial in another language with people I didn’t know. 

Then the daily “makan” conversation I’ve had 3 times every day for the past 5 months started “Erica! Makan! (Eat!)” And usually, I do to appease them whether I’m hungry or not. But slowly, I am learning to put my foot down. “Maaf (Sorry)” I say. “Saya sudah kenyang. (I’m already full). What I wanted to say was, “This special holiday food looks delicious but I am unfortunately disgusted by it because my Ibu insisted I eat a full even more disgusting meal 2 hours ago, which was at 5:30am, by the way when, again, I was also not hungry. And exhausted, and traumatised by a bug encounter that nightmares of insane asylum patients are made of. So BACK OFF! I’m trying my best, but I swear to god, if you tell me to makan one more time, I’m going to go all Orangutan on your ass!" Then my Ibu scooped the biggest mountain of rice onto my bowl after telling her no three times. I just stared at it. Watching as she started to pile more globs of food on top. I stared at the people around me eating the rice and food globs with their hands, their fingers glistening with sauce and saliva decorated with stray grains of rice that seemed to escape their mouths. Once again, I could feel another tickle from an ant on my neck, the Indonesian conversation around me started to sound like white noise, and my hijaab began to constrict the lump growing in my throat. I was about to have a moment. 

I removed myself from the eating circle on the floor and took a seat on the couch next to my brother Osep, who with his almost perfect English and experience working with Westerners has become somewhat of a cultural liason for me at site. I was hoping he could provide some type of comfort or understanding. Unfortunately for me, I was so far on the brink of tears, I could not utter the words to ask for help. Instead, he immediately asked me, as if this was the end of an episode of Barney and Friends, “So... what did you learn today?” My brain flooded with loud aggressive television static. “I….really…don’t…. know.” I said, in as tediously calm a way as possible. “That’s okay.” he said. "Just sit, and watch, and smile.” 

Smile. 

Smile for the camera. Smile and wave at the people. Smile and nod when you don’t understand. Smile and laugh when you are uncomfortable. Smile and be thankful when your Ibu overfeeds you. Smile and apologize when you aren’t fluent in their language after 5 months. Smile when they are all laughing at you. Smile at your sister when she gives you a plate of rice and warm soda after you just vomited your brains out because you have Dengue fever. Smile at your neighbour as she apathetically pokes her crying child’s head wound with her dirty fingers just after a helmet-less motorcycle accident. Smile at your babak as he goes to the backyard to burn the family trash for the day. Smile again just after you heard him take a monster shit 4 feet away from you as he touches you with the hand he just wiped himself with. Smile at yourself in the mirror wearing an ant infested dress and a hijaab which a male dominated religion has convinced women that they should wear because they are more beautiful dressed covered from head to toe in an equatorial climate. Just sit, and watch, and smile…

There are worse places to cry...

Smile as you abruptly excuse yourself from the room to run out into the backyard, sit on a tree root, tearing off your hiijaab (the literal, followed quickly by the figurative) and bawl your fucking eyes out.

When the family runs out to see what’s wrong... don’t smile. Show them you’ve been crying. Show them honesty. And watch…. as they look horribly confused. Listen as they tell you not to cry and that you need rest. And breathe as they awkwardly place you in a close-by house you’ve never been to, in a bedroom you’ve never seen, in a country you now fully realize is much farther away from home than you ever thought before. Watch them smile as they close the door. 

I suppose I knew a day like this would come. Peace Corps warned us about culture shock and depression especially within the first couple months at site. I’m honestly surprised this kind of catharsis didn’t come to me sooner. And after a couple days of digesting and explaining to my brother about what had happened to me that day, I admit, I still seem to be on the verge of crying at any moment. My family is now stepping on eggshells around me, which is also driving me nuts. But with time, I know that will even out. The thing is, in a way, I’m relieved that this finally happened. It means I’m normal. I’m processing this drastic life change in a healthy way. And it made me realize how far I’ve come here and how much more there is to learn.

The second I put on that hijaab, I felt ugly. Like a clown. A joke. Vulnerable and exposed. And horribly embarrassed and ashamed to be dressing up like millions of oppressed women who I feel have an intense cultural pressure to wear this. And to be stared at by hundreds of people that day in this position made me feel like a mockery. Every comment of how much more beautiful I looked in a hijaab only reminded me of how sad it all is. It made me hate where I was. This was my perception.

But at the same time... a better, stronger, braver part of me just... did it anyway.
That part of me knows that beauty is relative. That this culture is more than it looks through my American lens. And that part of me continued to wear the hijaab, say thank you, and fucking smile. 

"Saaay NASI"

The thing is, through it all, my frustration grew not only for this culture, but also simultaneously for myself for being this judgy American walking in on this old religious practice and being all outraged and shit. I could feel myself being short-sighted, but it was too visceral at the time to stop it. Or to know if I should stop it. Or really, how to split the difference.

It’s a hard tightrope to walk, balancing your inner convictions with your cultural flexibility. Where do you pick your battles? What do you really stand for? Where are you being short-sighted? When do you step in and when do you hold back? When should you stand up for what’s right? 

What is truly right? 

After all...

American women may not have to wear a hijaab to be considered beautiful…

They just have to wear a C cup and a size 6.

I guess you could say I have a lot to think about….

But don't we all?

A Day In The Life of a PCT

Written during various nights in my bed under my mosquito net...

Today’s PC Indonesia Glossary:

Indo – Indonesian

PCV – Peace Corps Volunteer

PCT – Peace Corps Trainee (Me until June 2^nd)

Ibu (Bu) – Mom

Bapak (Pak) - Dad

Mandi – Bathe

Apa – What

Bahasa Indonesia (Bahasa) – Language of Indonesia (language)

Bule – Indo term for white foreigner

Ereeka – How every Indo says my name

Peace Corps has a way of bringing heaviness where there is none and levity where it should never be.  The first time I poured a bucket of cold water over my naked body at four in the morning amongst a myriad of bugs and lizards made me giggle, while my first time watching Futurama on my laptop in my bed under my mosquito net gave me melancholic introspection.

Needless to say, the past few weeks have already begun to change me.

To spare you from a detailed account of the first two weeks of my journey (because every minute in a new job, new country, new life contains a whirlwind of emotion-filled sagas), I will categorize my overall experience in sections. The first one being:

A Day In The Life of a Peace Corps Indonesia Trainee

I wake up somewhere between 4am and 6am to the Muslim call of prayer and roosters having heated debates.  

Anecdote #1: My first morning staying with my family in the village of Oro Oro Ombo, I saw a cockroach on my bedroom floor. Here are the steps I took in dealing with this situation:

Step 1: See cockroach. Widen eyes, let out a “huh.”

Step 2: Realize that this is my first bug encounter in the Peace Corps. A milestone really. Smile and take a picture.

Step 3: Look up “cockroach” in my English/Indonesian dictionary in order to tell my Ibu.

Step 4. Go to the kitchen to tell my Ibu. While she’s doing dishes, second guess this, wondering if she’ll make fun of the Bule for worrying about a little cockroach. They’re probably common here.

Step 5: Go back into my room. Get a folder to scoop it up. Realize how fast they can run, drop the folder and watch it scurry under my bed next to my duffel bag.

Step 6: Watch it for a moment. See how scared it is. Recall the cockroach in the movie WALL-E. Start to feel a strange sympathy for the creature.

Step 7:See Ibu pass by my door, wondering what I’m doing on the floor. Point to cockroach. Watch as she grabs a shirt from the other room, and picks up the roach with it.

Step 8: As it hisses and writhes in her hand above me, realize how crazy Peace Corps is already making me.

Step 9: Let Ibu squash my cockroach moment with a t-shirt and her bare hands.

Step 10: Recognize there should have only been two steps: Step 1: Scream. Step 2: Kill cockroach.... So in a contemplative daze, I get dressed and move on with my life.

Some days I either go to the backyard and watch/help my Ibu cook the meals for the day, or I go for a run up my street and watch the sunrise while doing some stretches... or I sleep in until 6am. Then I bathe (mandi). While many volunteers were placed in homes with squat toilets, I was lucky enough to be placed in a house with a western toilet bowl. Both situations require you to take water from the basin and make a few pours into the toilet to flush.  Tip: Make it a point to make the toilet seat as wet as possible in the pouring process. In Indonesia, that means it’s clean.

Anecdote #2: When I came home from school on the second day of my stay, my Ibu sat me down with a list of questions she had written in English using her dictionary. One of them started as follows: “Ereeka, when you pup...” Then she proceeded to reach her hand behind her back.” “Apa?” I asked, having a feeling what she was trying to say but seeing as it was my second day, didn’t want to assume. “Pup... Pup!” I slowly and awkwardly as possible mimicked her hand gesture... she finally showed me the word she had written on the page,

“Defecate.” 

As she reaches behind herself again to explain how to pour water over yourself and wipe with your left hand, I stopped her and explained (as best I could) that Peace Corps had a whole hour-long training session on how to use the mandi and squat toilet. “Oooh, cleaver girl.” She said. I made the safe assumption she meant clever, and we smiled at each other, sweetly.

Then, I mandi. I strip, I sit and do my business, putting my PC training to work, then after washing my hands, thoroughly, by pouring water over my left hand holding my bar of soap, I pour water in the toilet. I pour more water on myself and soap up. If I’m lucky, my Ibu felt inclined to heat up a tea kettle of hot water to mix into the water basin. Then I brush my teeth, spit on the floor (quite satisfying), and rinse. Mandi.

Anecdote #3: One morning during my mandi, a mosquito flew from the hole in the ceiling straight towards me. I remembered the horrifically descriptive session we had on Malaria and Dengue fever. That session made every mosquito an immediate threat to my life. As it bolted toward my face I instinctually launched my bucket of mandi water in its direction to no avail. It persisted. A second splash. A third. But it was able to dodge every hurl with alarming swiftness. After the seventh or eighth launch, with every wall dripping with failed attempts, I was able to see myself, naked and crazed with the mosquito no where to be found. Thats when I realized: while I was not stung, the mosquito had won. 

Then I put on my robe (which I thank myself every day for packing), go to my room and apply lotion, then sunscreen, then bug spray. Then I get dressed and make my bed. This takes twice as long because my Ibu insists I sweep my bed with a hand broom made of bamboo. I have yet to find out why. Then I have to tuck in my mosquito net. Many physically awkward and tedious minutes later, bed made.  Then I pack my bags, fill my water bottles from the fresh water cooler in my room that every home stay is required to have to host a Peace Corps trainee. Next, I sit down to breakfast. Today it was small whole fried fish (about the size of my hand), fried dumplings, fried spiced tempeh nuggets called mendol, and nasi (rice). Always nasi. All day, every day.

Anecdote #4: Within ten minutes of walking into my family’s house for the first time, they made me eat. This practice hasn’t stopped since I’ve been here. When submerging yourself into this kind of situation with very little grasp of the language, every move you make is reanalyzed as to not offend. This is triply true when it comes to eating.  Usually it is smart to wait for locals to start and follow their lead. This was impossible as it seemed my place was the only one set at the table. They were just watching me, talking sounds at me and urging me to eat. I was afraid to pick up my utensils. I think they finally assumed I didn’t know how to eat food because my Ibu took it upon herself to teach me in the same fashion you teach someone how to practice their swing in golf, coming behind me, taking each of my wrists and scooping each bite and feeding me with my own hands. Luckily, I finally had the common sense to find my dictionary and look up the word “sorry” and “left-handed”.

Then my Ibu gives me a packed lunch and my Peace Corps neighbor, Lindsey stops by and we walk to school together.  During this walk, we get nothing but stares and smiles from locals, with the occasional honk from a family on their sepeda motor (motorcycle). 

Three minutes later, we arrive at the small elementary school tucked away in an alley, which consists of two buildings, one with three small classrooms, and one with two small classrooms. Then we, the six of us in Group Oro Oro Ombo A, learn Bahasa Indonesia (language of Indonesia) from 7:30-noon. During our hour break, we usually go to the classroom lay on the colored padded floor in the kindergarten classroom and either snack on lunch, exchange cross-cultural stories of awkwardness, compare the food our families cook us, or complain about irregular bowel movements. Or you might even happen to find us having a normal conversation. We also like to stop at one of the many locally owned convenience shops, usually based out of a neighbor’s house (a one minute walk away) for some kind of beverage or snack. Children are bound to peak into our classroom and giggle at us. Sometimes greeted with “salamat pagi/siang! (good morning/afternoon!).” We are quite the spectacle in Oro Oro Ombo.

Then from 1pm-5pm we meet up with the 7 others in Group Oro Oro Ombo B and receive TEFL training. We’ve been getting visits from the ID6 and ID7 Peace Corps groups (we are ID8). It’s nice to hear from them. They are quite positive but do not sugar coat it. It is a hard job, sometimes it sucks, but this country is beautiful and all of them either rate the experience an 8 or a 9 out of 10 in the end. This gives me a lot of hope.

Then after 5pm we can either go home (which I tend to do), or sometimes walk further up the hill the Warnet café (the only internet café in the village consisting of 7 computers).

One day Lindsey and I visited Alejandra’s house where her Ibu served us tea with the usual 5 scoops of sugar in it, and some kind of cold milky soup with various colored rice goop in it. This was after we insisted she did not feed us. You cannot visit anyone’s house without being fed. She even made us a full fledged to-go meal for the 5 minute walk back home consisting of noodles, spiced potatoes, a curried hard boiled egg, and, you guessed it: a big ass scoop of rice. I was full just watching her dish it out. Then her Ibu insisted she walk us home, arms linked the entire way.

Another day we made the 20 minute hike up to the high school where we can get wifi. So I brought my ukulele up there to look up some tabs on the internet and found a few other PCTs shooting some hoops. Then Ophie (pronounced Opey) the tiniest cutest sweetest woman, who is our group’s cultural liaison rode up on here motor bike (by far the most popular form of transportation in Java/the one mode of transportation that PCVs are forbidden to use. If we are caught sitting on one, we will be immediately sent home).  She sat next to me and we made a very sweet attempt at playing/singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”.

When I go home, I usually mandi again. Both because of my Ibu’s assistance and of pure necessity. I really have to with the hot humid climate. It’s really a constant state of moisture. Splash splash splash, then I do my PR, pronounced pay-err (homework). My Ibu “helps” me by looking over my shoulder and saying the answers. Finally asked my teacher how to politely say that I can do it myself without offending her. The other night she was doing some kind of worksheet at the dinner table. When I asked her what she was doing, she replied, “Anak PR (my son’s homework). So, there’s a lot of that type of thing here. Did I mention my Ibu is the headmaster of the elementary school where we meet for class?

Then we eat makan malam (dinner). Can I just say how much I love the food here? The curries, the soups, the meat, fried mashed potato pancakes, Tempeh and tofu cooked in a style that leaps beyond tolerable to delectable. They way they cook eggs here is something to behold. I’ve always been into the weird foods. And when it comes to food, Indonesia caters to my every need. Quail eggs, Goat meatballs and chicken satay, fried whole fish (found a love for eating the crispy tails).  Spicy peanut sauce on everything!  My Ibu and Bapak brag to their neighbor how much I love spicy foods. I’ve only had to spit out one dish. I took a big bite of what I thought was curried tempe with potatoes. I was right about the first two ingredients. But it was not potatoes. It was boiled cow skin. I took one bite and new I couldn’t swallow.

After dinner, we do various things. We talk, we watch tv, share pictures of our lives, play with Fino, my 4 year old little brother. We laugh a lot. Then, I tell them “Saya mau tidur.” (I want to sleep).

I go to my room, change into my pjs, take my malaria pill, crawl under my mosquito net in my bed, write for a bit or make a phone call to another PCT, then I turn off the light and listen to the sounds of my village outside my window. Resonant pop music in the distance... Spurts of laughter, singing, and children... motorcycles coming and going,... a cat fight of apocalyptic proportions....and my thoughts...

I have traveled far and wide in my short and privileged life. But never have I looked at the exotic excitement of a destination through the lens of familiarity... But I can see it...glimpses of it, with constant refocusing, albeit. But the adjusting will inevitably become less frequent. And though the lens will surely get scuffed and tainted from time to time, I can see it... I can see my home.

Present

Written on the plane from Denver International Airport to Peace Corps Staging in San Francisco...

Do you ever experience nostalgia over the present moment as if it is already a memory? As if you are looking back on your life as an 80 year old, remembering fondly of the time you were having a seemingly mundane conversation with someone you love, a silent contemplative drive, a gentle cry over a sunrise... looking back with intense nostalgia as if it was the most precious possession you carry in your withering age?

Or do you ever experience this moment with a sense of unadulterated wonder? As if it was the first time you have ever felt a breeze across your face, the way your belly hurts after a laugh too long, the surging sound of a crackling fire, the quiver you feel when someone says I love you with their eyes... like a thirsty child ravenously drinking in the refreshing world like a tall glass of ice water dripping curiously with beads of condensation.

Or maybe you hover above the present moment. Like a omniscient narrator unfolding and weaving your own tale, picking out the similes, metaphors, planting the foreshadows, searching for the characters and settings that build the story into an intriguing and cohesive plot... honorably climbing your story arc, chapter after chapter...

Is it possible to experience these perspectives simultaneously? Ebbing and flowing through your eyes, mind and heart, in and out, back and forth, crashing over each other in sporadic bursts and meditative waves, with the violent inconsistency of a tempest, steady as the tide.

The seatbelt sign dinged, the pilot spoke, and the engines rose with the sun over the Rocky Mountains, turning violet by the morning: My last present moment with Colorado as I sped faster and faster along the range.

The past few months were one of the richest experiences I’ve had in my home state. When almost every day is the last time you’ll be in this place, eat this food, do this activity, see this person... everything carried a heightened sense of gratitude.

And so much to be grateful for:

The love and support my friends and family has given me is truly immeasurable. Gifts of thoughtful shapes and intangible sizes. Words of love and loyalty. A hug can carry so much... I have been lifted up by all of you. And launched into a place I never could have gone alone.  Thank you.

The chance to live every day as though it were my last, with fresh eyes and delicate senses has been a gift on its own precious level. Every interaction carries an extra weight of loving intention and honesty. Every bite of food is a savored symphony; every experience, a warm blanket of home I wrap tightly around myself to keep me warm on my journey. It’s like I’m dying, with all of the perks and none of the messy grief...

Yes, even the strange sadness that naturally comes with leaving the familiar is a gift.  Every light casts a shadow. This too comes with a heightened appreciation. Because while these feelings are harder to swallow, I have realized through multiple experiences of varied intensity that no feelings are ever wrong. Every one of them comes with a lesson... if you are willing to look for it. With much practice, I have learned to welcome these feelings, let them wash over me, and then, in due time, I gently step outside of it, to see why they came. 

I will deeply miss my friends, my family, my favorite foods and drinks, hot showers, air conditioned rooms, long drives, the theatre, my cat, my life... I’ll miss the little details that I won’t even realize I’ll miss until they are gone. This is a good thing. I know this because just as much as I already miss home and in turn, appreciate it just a little bit more (as I have many times in the past), I know now that I’ll also miss the home I have never been to...

I look forward to savoring the last drops of life I will create for myself in Indonesia and to feel the same bittersweet longing for what I am leaving when the time comes to return home. To obtain the same appreciation for the lifelong friends I will inevitably meet in this upcoming week as I do for my closest loved ones from home. To miss foods I have never tasted, places I’ve never dreamt of, and memories I have yet to make.

The lift of the aircraft pulls my heart so deep to where I have no choice but to grab the arm of the practical stranger in front of me whom I just met an hour ago: one of the 63 souls with whom I will share this journey. As she holds my hand with even greater intensity, I lock teary eyes with another Coloradoan Peace Corps volunteer looking back at me a few rows ahead.

Just as I see myself rise higher and higher above the Rockies as a memory, a fresh beginning, and a profound plot point, so I see the three of us amongst dozens of others in a montage of colorfully intimate and memorable possibilities ahead.

Do you ever feel like you are leaving home and, at the same time... heading directly towards it?

Before the Corps: A Timeline

As most of you know, I have been invited to be a Peace Corps volunteer from:

March 15^th 2014 to May 25^th 2016 

or

(27 months) 

or 

(3 months training + 2 years of service) 

or

(A really really long time)

or

(Not that long in the grand scheme of things) 

I have decided to use this first entry to illustrate the path that lead me to this point. Both as a way to chronicle my inspiration, application, and celebration of this upcoming life-changing event, as well as to illustrate the exact process I went through for potential prosepective Peace Corps applicants floating around out there.

Alrighty, here goes... 

A Timeline:

August 2010-December 2010: Embarked on a profoundly life-altering voyage around the world on Semester at Sea, visiting 11 countries in 108 days. Fell hopelessly in love with the beauty of the world. Became heartbroken from the largeness of the world's suffering and the smallness of my abilities to change it. Made a mission to make myself useful to the world, which somehow became more important than making the world useful to me.

January 2011 - August 2011:  Proceeded to suffer from lingering reverse culture shock, a quarter life crisis, and an overall sense of despondency of my existence.  Became paralyzed with empathy and a lack of my newfound direction to make a significant difference in the world. Vaguely tossed around ideas. The Peace Corps, among other weighed options came to mind. Made some inquiries. Asked questions. Had doubts and hangups. Battled a sinking perspective of hopelessness on any meager attempt I could make to make a difference. Got depressed. Became somewhat of a nihilist.

September 3rd 2011: Was jolted by a traumatic “perfect storm” type of near death experience two days before my 25^th birthday from going into severe anaphylactic shock. Decided I had nothing to left lose. This, paired with the nihilism, gave me a great sense fearlessness. It was time to do something radical, take advantage of my young precious fleeting life, trudge through this existential mess, and follow the path that makes me come alive again: I made a budget and a promise to myself to spend the summer of 2012 traveling solo across the country. After such an extremely rough patch of sadness, guilt, and loathing, I was ready to rediscover my faith in humanity, in America, in the life I've created within it, and most importantly, in myself. 

And finally, while not feeling ready to do the Peace Corps, I decided I was going to start filling out an application anyway, with the goal of being ready for the experience once I received an invitation.

And it begins...

September 2011 - December 2011: Gained references for my application. Volunteered as a Research Intern for Community Resource Center in Denver.

April 2012: Embarked on my 4-month long solo 10,000 mile cross-country road trip.

April 2012 - June 2012: SLOWLY whittled away at my Peace Corps application while traveling on the road. Regained a newfound sense of faith which climaxed through an intensely spiritual experience I had in the Great Smokey Mountains. 

June 5th 2012: Submitted my Peace Corps application. 

June 7^th 2012: Received an email from a recruiter asking me to call to schedule an interview. Also asked me to mail in fingerprints and college transcripts, which I mailed from Torrence, CA.

June 27^th 2012: Peace Corps interview with my recruiter (by phone while in Hollywood, CA). Was requested to send in an updated resume addendum and criminal history report (because of a silly MIP ticket I got for drinking half a beer underage at a busted party in 2006). Also was informed I needed to complete 30 hours or more of ESL volunteer teaching experience.

July 2012: Inquired and found an ESL volunteer teaching opportunity waiting for me in Boulder.

August 2012: Came home from my road trip and moved to Boulder for a job I got on the road: A touring actor/teacher for the Colorado Shakespeare Festival!

August 21^st - October 28th 2012: Completed my 30+ hours of ESL volunteer hours and submitted my volunteer log.

November 15^th 2012: Received my nomination to join the Peace Corps. (A nomination is a recommendation from your recruiter that an applicant move to the next stage of consideration; the medical, legal, suitability, and competitive reviews.)

December 17^th 2012: Was informed that because Peace Corps went through a change in its application and medical clearance processes while I was applying I will have to redo my Health History Form (HHF) to submit to my medical portal and will be notified when the new form is available.

December 21^st 2012: After still not receiving a link to my portal, I called my recruiter and was told to email the medical portal support team. Sent the email.

December 28^th2012:  Got a reply saying that my application was changed to “inactive” on December 16^th because the Peace Corps had given me 3 warning emails on my portal since November 15th requesting that I submit a few more medical documents regarding some details on my original medical application. Turns out they had my email address wrong so I never got the emails, therefore never submitted the forms.

January 2^nd 2013: After some back and forth, the email misunderstanding was corrected. Application “reactivated”. Started a second contract working for a different touring theatre company: the highest paying, worst job (acting or otherwise) I've ever had. 

January 9^th 2013: Had a doctor appointment to complete medical forms, which required a doctor’s signature that I am fit to join the Peace Corps. Submitted medical documents to my portal.

January 10^th 2013: Received this email: “Thank you for sending in all of your required medical documents. They have been received and are under review by the Office of Medical Services. If, after review of the medical information you submitted, we require anything further, we will send you an email notification.”

January 11^th - April 24^th 2013: (.....Crickets *chirp chirp*....)

April 25^th 2013: Received this breadcrumb in the form of an email: “We have reviewed the medical information you provided and have issued you a medical pre-clearance. A medical pre-clearance means that, based on the information you have provided so far, you are preliminarily medically cleared for Peace Corps service.... This is NOT a final medical clearance.   Your final medical clearance will be based on the results of a physical exam, a dental exam, and lab tests you will be asked to provide if you receive a formal invitation to serve in the Peace Corps. Your application will now be reviewed by our Placement Office.  If the Placement Office issues you a formal invitation to serve, and you accept that invitation, the Office of Medical Services will contact you again with instructions on obtaining your final medical clearance.”

April 26^th – July 10^th 2013: (.......Tumbleweed *whoooosh*........)

July 11^th 2013: Email Received: “Your application is currently on hold due to your alcohol-related legal incident from 2006.  In order to further assess your file, I will need you to send me your statement and answers to the questionnaire to this e-mail address as soon as possible.”

July 16^th 2013: Submitted questionnaire and statement saying I’m not a drugged up alcoholic hooligan.

July 17^th  - September 2^nd 2013: (....Doo-bee-doo-be-doooo *Twiddles thumbs*........)

September 3^rd 2013: Email received from the placement and assessment specialist working with my application. Was informed that I have been medically and legally pre-cleared and my application has undergone a preliminary placement review. Was requested to fill out a final questionnaire an upload it to my applicant portal to determine if I am qualified for placement. The email closed with this little gem: “It has accurately been said, that the patience and flexibility required to maneuver this process, provides a small taste of what volunteers encounter on a daily basis, living in the field. Your continued patience, flexibility, and professionalism are greatly appreciated.” (...Deep breathes...)

September 4^th 2013: Completed questionnaire and attempted to upload to my applicant portal but was unable to log into my portal.

September 9^th 2013: After a series of frustrating email inquiries about my portal technical issue leading all the way up to the day before my deadline, I received this email: “I can upload your questions for you. I’m just realizing you applied in July 2012, and therefore do not have access to the Applicant Portal, which we began using in August 2012.  Sorry for the confusion.  I should be in touch in the next couple weeks regarding next steps."

September 16th 2013: RECEIVED MY INVITATION TO JOIN THE PEACE CORPS!!! 
"Congratulations! It is with great pleasure that we invite you to begin training in as an English Teacher in Indonesia for Peace Corps service." Tried to recall the last time I had cried of pure giddiness to the point of uncontrollable shaking... for four hours straight.

September 17th 2013: Accepted my invitation. Received my To Do list which includes: Submitting an updated resume and aspiration statement, Apply for a Visa, And getting FINAL medical clearance, aka, completing all tasks assigned on my medical portal including over a dozen medical forms to be completed with various doctors (including vaccinations, dental x-rays, physical, OBGYN, and an eye exam), Completing all tasks on my Volunteer Portal including direct deposit forms, Emergency Contacts, Life Insurance/Next of kin, etc.

January 23rd 2014: After completing all medical tasks in my portal, received a request for further documentation regarding my asthma before I receive final medical clearance. This required a FIFTH doctor's appointment to have my doctor state that despite my minor case of asthma, I am suitable to join the Peace Corps.

February 3rd 2014: Submitted documents.

February 4th 2014: Received Final Medical Clearance! All systems are go! Nothing left for me to do except pack and wait to receive my exact flight itinerary about a month before I leave! Then...

March 15th 2014: Another adventure begins...

Whew!

So as you can see, a lot of "hurry up and wait" moments. My advice to all who have vaguely considered this as a possible life path: Just apply. You can always say no at any point in the application process. Don't worry about how long it takes, or where you'll be in your life. In the words of Earl Nightingale, "Never give up on a dream because of the time it will take to accomplish it. The time will pass anyway."

So after all this time, hassle, ambiguity, perseverance, and patience, did I accomplish my goal to be ready for the Peace Corps when the time came? Am I ready? 

Yes... and No...

I have simply found myself to be ready through an ever-growing faith, comfort and acceptance of this fact: 

I'll never be ready...for the Peace Corps or any other curveball that life will inevitably throw me. 

BUT my newfound sense of appreciation, peace of mind, faith, intuition, wisdom, and courage these last two years have bestowed upon me were far worth the pain and experience it took to acquire. And in the end, more tools to take with me.

And isn't that the way it always is... And will continue to be.