Micro-Stressers & Happy Thoughts: It's the Little Things

When Robin Williams died, things turned to shit. I'm not saying they were related to each other in any way. It's just that things were heading downhill as it was, so I when I heard that my greatest childhood idol killed himself, I bauled my eyes out for the third time that week. Much like Robin's happy-go-lucky personality and career, my happy-go-lucky life in the Peace Corps is not always what I portray. The month of August (my 5th month at site) sent me down an emotional frenzy. A whirlwind of miscommunications, misunderstandings, insensitivity, and oversensitivity to all the infamous "micro-stressers" that Peace Corps had warned us about during training had led me to a vast exploration in an uncharted world of funk. It was safe to say that I was in the midst of my well-predicted culture shock slump that happens to almost all Peace Corps Volunteers within the first few months at site. Pictured below:

Here are the Top 4 "micro-stressers" I'm referring to:

#1 Wheezing. Waking up in the morning struggling to breathe tends to get me off to a bad start. Yes, unfortunately the combination of sleeping in an old house paired with the average  Indonesian lifestyle of unapologetic air pollution (trash burning, smoking, and excessive motorbike riding) does not bode well with my allergies. Yes, Indonesians burn their trash (aluminum, plastic, and all), every single household, every single day in their yards in a designated trash burning pile where you can often find stray cats, dogs, and chickens rummaging through. So, I had to start using my inhaler a lot more often, and wasn't getting nearly enough sleep or peace of mind because of it. It's so disheartening. One of the most beautiful biodiverse places in the world and it is covered in litter and smoke.

"I love the smell of cancer in the morning."

#2 Tension. Stress, guilt, and dread are experienced even before even getting out of bed. Guilt from not waking up at 4am with the rest of the family. Stress from waking up hot and still tired from restless sleep with the whole day ahead of me. Dread from having to walk my hot mess across the entire house, past every single family member who will bombard me with the same two slightly varied subjects of conversation. "Makan" (Eat), "Mandi" (Bathe).  This is not a once in a while occurrence. It runs like clockwork. Every. Single. Day. I have started to wonder how they thought I have survived my first 27 years of life without being constantly reminded of these two important morning priorities. All of this before my first morning pee. I would not wish for this sort of pre-pee procession on anyone. The silence before your first morning pee is an important and sacred thing. But in this house, not much is sacred. Which leads me to my next daily micro-stresser.

#3 The Mandi. The average Indonesian Kamar Mandi (directly translated to "room bathe") is intimidating in its own right. The bucket showers, the squatting, the flexibility, perfecting the angles, and simple stamina are all respectable challenges to overcome. Not to mention, it's really somewhat of a hazard. Water and soap coat the floor that you are barefoot in. Not to mention other mysterious bodily secretions. I thought I had assumed them all. Until I caught my niece haulking up a giant loogie, not anywhere near the drain mind you, just before exiting. She only took a bucket to rinse it down after seeing me about to enter. As you can imagine, I have almost slipped on that floor on a number of occasions both in and out of the squat position. So it's the type of thing, no matter what zombie state you are in on a sleepy morning or in the wee hours of the night when nature calls, you have to have your wits about you before you enter. If this wasn't enough, the layout for my mandi is... strange. Basically two toilet stalls share one mandi. So a good fresh morning bucket bath can be literally shit upon by my bapak (father) entering the stall next to me to take some loud graphic poops not 4 feet away from me. Likewise, when I need to have some privacy to do the same, someone can come into the stall next to me to take a mandi which makes me have to make a quick (and often involuntary) decision between comfort and modesty. Did I mention the kamar mandi is right next to the kitchen? On multiple occasions, I have been fixing myself some good eats only to find out that the acoustics in the kamar mandi are unfortunately exceptional.

The kamar mandi. Stall one.

From the first stall peering into the second stall That far wall's door leads to the kitchen.

#4: The food. Eat any one type of ethnic food almost every day for 6 months straight and you'll get bored with it, too. Then sick of it. Then disgusted by it. Allow me to briefly explain the food in Indonesia. Rather than refrigerators or freezers, prepared dishes/leftovers are stored under a basket domed lid on the kitchen table or in the cupboard. This practice leads to a variety of questionable bugs and smells that permanently inhabit the kitchen. So, when I lift the basket lid, a string of events happen. Bugs, that were settled on the basket swarm in and around my face and food (not the most appetising greeting). Once that chaos clears, I have a brief moment to assess my options that become less and less appetising by the day, all of which are luke warm from sitting out for hours or even days. This usually features proteins of dry tempe, wet fried tofu, tough chicken, and/or some mystery variety of salty fish. About 5 seconds later, my Ibu (mother) and older sister with their sixth senses come rushing in ordering me to eat and proceed to pull out all the prepared food dishes from the cupboard. If they're feeling especially proactive they will start dishing me a plate of about a cup (or more) of white rice (which they have for every. single. meal.) While I have gotten over it to an extent, there are days when all I want to do is just leisurely look at food which I may or may not eat. I didn't realize how relaxing this practice was until it was taken away from me.

These daily micro-stressers and the increasingly growing lack of sleep led me to a very cynical, jaded, and hopeless place. Every little annoying aspect of this culture started to magnify until it was all I could see. For example:

• Rice. Eating one full cup of rice with every single meal. Without fail. Even when they eat noodles, they lay them over a big bed of rice and eat it with a spoon. An average Indonesian meal consists of a plate covered in white rice, and maybe one small 2-bite-sized piece of meat. If they are feeling adventurous, some another 2-bite side dish with a dab of sambal (Indo spicy sauce). Then they take a big wad of rice, and tear a teeny tiny piece of the meat, (about a 5-1 ratio), mush and clasp it all in their fingers, eat, and repeat. The thing that gets me is that they have a plethora of the most delicious and inexpensive fruits and vegetables at their disposal but with so little knowledge on daily nutrition.

• Health. They believe sickness is caused by a frustrating array of medically unsound reasons. When you get a stomachache or flu, it's because the "wind entered you (masuk angin)". If you have a cough, it's because you ate too much watermelon. If you get a sore throat, you shouldn't eat ice cream. You just need more rice. I still have to tell them that the reason I was violently ill with body aches and a fever when I first arrived at site was not because I "had mango juice after eating spicy food". It was because I had a relapse of Dengue fever. They still don't believe me.

• Going out. Everywhere you go, people ask where you are going? Where are you from? Can I take a picture with you? Not to mention hearing the yells of "Bule! Bule! (White person). Mister mister! (because they never learned the difference between mister and miss)" as I walk down the street.

• Staying In. I can't leave the house. Okay, well I can leave the house, but it requires the third degree from my bapak and ibu akin to a father letting his 13 year-old daughter go out with some boys on a Saturday night. Except I just want to take a stroll or ride my bike around the village. Maybe buy some snacks at a toko. For the first couple months, I was not allowed to leave the house alone. Sometimes they even had to have me wait for a neighbor to come over and escort me. After the second month at site passed, they finally let me go out... but apparently had me followed by my 16 year old nephew without my knowing, just to make sure I was safe. The last time I went out just before dark. 40 minutes later, my bapak came looking for me on his motorcycle as I was walking back home and told me he wanted to take me home. When I explained to him, again, that Peace Corps doesn't allow me to ride motorcycles, he insisted on following slowly behind me as I walked back, shining his headlights on me, which of course, lent itself to even more "Bule!" calls from the passing motorcycles. So much for my 6:30pm "leisurely" evening walk to buy some cooking ingredients.

• Cheating. My students cheat. A lot. At least 80% on a regular basis. Even more when there is a test (blatantly, I might add). This is the norm in Indonesian classrooms.  It's mostly ignored and even condoned by the teachers, especially on the final exam, because if the students don't get over 75%, the teacher's jobs are at stake. So I was instructed to not give any student under a 75%. Because of this, I can't really blame the students. I blame the government regulations and the teachers to a lesser extent. Because a big reason I get 80 essays all directly copied from the text book is because some of the teachers are too lazy to read the assignments to notice. Overall, the teachers are lazier than the students. It is not unusual to hear about them ditching class, showing up late and leaving early regularly. 

• Rubber Time. There's a thing called rubber time (jam karet) where if a designated time for a meeting, lets say, is at 2 oclock, it might start 20 minutes to 2 hours late. Or 10 minutes early. This goes for public transportation, too. 

• Number 2. The luxurious days of taking a nice satisfying shit with cell phone in hand are over.Squatting over a toilet and wiping your poo off your ass with your hand while simultaneously fending off mosquitoes is not one of my favorite daily activities. Afterwards using a communal family bar of soap to wash said poop hand is always a little unnerving.  This still is a constant mental adjustment for me.

• Food Preparation. Knowing that the woman preparing your daily meals does the same thing and all you can do is hope they washed her hands thoroughly earlier as you did not see them wash them just before man handling the meal you're about to eat. I am baffeled at how they hold such a high importance of washing up before praying but not before food preparation.  Let alone witnessing various members of your family haulk up sickly loogies in the sink that your raw veggies and eating utensils are washed in. Or the random kitchen run-ins with rats and cochroaches (one which decided to crawl up my pant leg) that make every surface of that kitchen their walking trail.

• General Perplexities. I started to wonder how this country even runs at all. How has Indonesia gotten this far? They have a rapidly growing population, strong economic growth, and expanding cities but an incredibly weak infrastructure and education system. And a very young democracy which is still infested with corruption and excessive bureaucracy to an absurd degree.They have the resources but lack the competence and experience on how to utilize them. It's like giving a baby an iphone...

No, Indonesia, what are you-- that's not how you-- THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS!!!

With all these annoyances invading my perspective and my only two places of solitude to decompress were a bedroom that gives me athsma attacks and a bathroom which I have proven is not a good place to decompress, I laid in my bed feeling sufficated (both mentally and literally) and I cried. I got angry, I lashed out, I bitched and moaned and completely fell apart. On multiple occasions. 

After too many nights of despair, after many vocalized half-threats to give up and go home. I could see who I was turning into. And I didn't like that person. That person was helpless and judgemental. A complainer. A victim.

What is nice and simultaniously awful about encountering hardships in the Peace Corps is that you have to rewire some of your go-to habits after you've had a really bad day. You can't go out to the bars with your friends and talk it out, you can't binge on your favorite comfort foods, you can't even take a really long hot shower to decompress. You just have your situation and yourself. 

So here I was. And I had a descision to make. Sink? Or swim?

And then I remembered something. 

Something that seemed to get lost in the overwhelming chaos of the hundreds of hours of language and mind numbing cultural training, the miscommunications, the disgusting food, the bugs, the traffic, the obtrusive call to prayer, the trash smoke, the slow internet, the squatty potties...

I wanted this.

I wanted to be cornered. I wanted to be forced to face what is so easy to ignore in my comfortable American life. Blame, dismissal, willful ignorance, distractions, procrastination. All common reactions we love to use to alleviate the symptoms of unhappiness when we don't want to face the cause: our pure unadulterated selves. At our worst. At our weakest. 

My reality has led me to think more about the problem at hand and explore new go-to habits when I'm feeling trapped and overwhelmed.

Basically, I am on a valient attempt to rewire the synapse paths in my brain.

So without further ado, I give you....

Erica's Self-Diagnosed 5-step Culture Shock Funk Crisis Rehabilitation Program (a working title):

Step 1: Buy an Air Purifier. After some frustrating conversations with the Peace Corps medical staff on them refusing to help financially compensate a medical need, I splurged my own money on an air purifier for my room. After a week of use, the filter had already turned dark gray. 

This air filter used to be whiter than the spot on the right. 
This was after one week of use. 
Look at all that guck I'm not breathing. Ahhh....

Step 2: Quality Sleep. This step was in direct correlation with step one. Once I was able to breathe easier (not perfect) but enough to finally get a solid nights rest, the hauntingly treacherous mountain of doom I was facing turned into a nice challenging fourteener. 

Step 3: Exercise. Doing yoga or aerobics 3 times a week at least has done wonders for my stress levels and my breathing. Not to mention, my confidence.

Step 4: Meditate. Every. Single. Day. Like I've always been meaning to do. 

Headspace.com has been a game changer. I highly recommend.

The benifits of meditation are hard to ignore. And just 20 days of meditating every day has already done wonders for my quality of sleep, my perspective, and even my athsma. My inhaler usage has gone from once every 2-3 days to zero. I feel a greater sense of control in my life and my reactions to it. The micro-stressers have continued to shrink every day. And the ones I don't... well... I am currently tackling. Which leads me to my last step....

Step 5: Take control. Every microstresser must be addressed and organised into one of three categories: Take control, change my perspective, or let it go. I already proved I could do this with my allergies. Now everytime I wake up, the first thing I do is meditate. I let go of the stress, guilt and dread I habitually experienced my first few months at site. Instead, I tell myself that the people out there waiting to tell me to "makan" and "mandi" love me and are excited for me to wake up and start my day with them. I've also started cooking 80% of my meals where I can control the nutrition and sanitation of my food. And for the past 3 weeks, I have left my house without much worry from my family. And because of my improved mood, I have more days than not where I simply laugh at the "bule/mister" remarks and correct them with a smile. I've been getting less of those these days. As for the rest, I am learning to let it go, one moment at a time... that is the hardest part of course.

But the best part of watching the micro-stresser clouds clear away, is being able to spot and appreciate the little joys in my life here. I've started to count. Turns out, I have quite a lot of them.

So in the honor of the late great Robin Williams, I give you my "Happy Thoughts":

(.......Feel free to turn on a cheesy reflective montage song from the 90's as you peruse these photos. In fact, allow me....)

There. That's better. Enjoy....

Seeing the faces of my family

And my friends

This little guy is always asking me when we are going to do aerobics and yoga again.
How can I say no to that? Best workout buddy ever.

The closest thing to a cuddle I get at my site is when
he inevitably falls asleep on me during car rides.

Naked bucket baths in the front yard... 

He gets all the ladies.

My village is the source of pineapples for West Java.
We are practically swimming in them! (Ouch?)

Finding strange bits of Colorado in the most peculiar places. Like amidst the fine china.

The random spottings of Engrish/general absurdity. "This better..." Is it, Engrish? Is it?

My school. Where the magic happens.

Stumbling on these types of gems on google translate.

While this can get annoying after a while, I am still fascinated by how fascinating they think I am.
And grateful for the strange unique experience of being a local celebrity.

The students. Yes, they may cheat but that is only half the story.
Because they are more respectful and more motivated than most high school students in America.
They are curious. They want to learn. And they inspire and surprise me everyday.

My growing ability to make last minute
 improvised inspirational semi-educational speeches

Being a part of a passionate and motivated theatre program that creates
beautiful things like this at our school.
"Yes way."

The theatre kids. Their eccentricity is very similar to my theatre friends back in high school in America.
And the fact that I am now the teacher in this world blows my mind in a joyful explosion of eccentricity.

Playing games, sharing stories, and eating on banana leaves
during sleepovers at the school with my theater students

And watching them cook up mind-blowing masterpieces with nothing but a hotplate.

When people assume I'm qualified to do
almost anything because I'm American.
Like judge a talent show. Or coach debate.
Or give motivational speeches at any given moment.
Which in turn, makes me step up to the plate and just do it.
Imagine that. I can.

But really the talent at my school is exceptional

Es Kelapa Muda. My favorite Indonesian drink.
Fresh young coconut pulp in coconut water
with a touch of sweetened condensed milk.
The nectar of Gods.

Watching this woman make surabe:
A thick pancake made with rice flour and coconut milk fried on an oven
with an egg in the middle. Meant to be torn apart and dipped into a spicy nut sauce.
A local comfort food.

Making spontaneous surabe runs with the cousins.
I equate it to the taco bell runs of the desa.

Taking control of my food by cooking most meals for myself.
And the opportunity to share cross-cultural culinary passions with my sister, the chef.

It's expensive, and not completely right, but pesto is technically possible to make here.

So is ginger sauce

And velveeta-esque cheese sauce.
It's funny how the foods I wouldn't touch in the States
become my biggest cravings simply because they are American.
McDonalds is another great example.
I have to get a spicy chicken sandwich when I'm in the city.
They're just so much better here!

Being able to make taco salad and guacamole and share it with my family for the first time.
Before that moment, they thought avocados were only used for sweet contexts.

But avocado in a sweet context (with chocolate or coconut milk) is indeed amazing.

My sister makes me pretty omelettes. So happy I packed cholula.

My Ibu serving me Cholula without even asking.
Oh, Bu. You know me too well.

My "home" board. I'm leaving the middle open for more letters from home. (hint hint)
Especially if Cholula is enclosed. (hint hint hint)

This cat that occasionally visits after he wandered into my bedroom one night.
I have slowly been taming him ever since.
He is my fox... "Little Prince" anyone?

Love being so close to these kiddos.
And the opportunity to be a big sister/auntie for the first time in my life.

Regular hang-outs on the porch

When my niece randomly decides to braid my hair
and take pictures of me.

Teaching my niece to play "Let it Go" on the uke
while my nephew dances.

Having a backyard that grows avocadoes, pineapple, guava, tomatoes, onions,
 and is big enough to have bike races with the kiddos.

My ukelele. And my new baby. Oh, I didn't tell you? I have a baby now.
It's cool, his mom basically said that I could take him back to America.
And by that I mean she laughed when I told her that I was going to steal him.
His name is Sultan and he is nothing but pure joy.

Just look at that mug!

Being a primary source of joy for each other.
He cries when I leave for school now.
And smiles when I come into the room.
Most days, he is the happy thought that gives me the deepest smiles.

All the babies! The kids are really the happiest part of my day.
They are not of their culture yet. They are just kids.
The way kids are in every country. Children are magical that way.

My amazing sister and counterpart (co-teacher) Dian.
I've been warned through my training and heard horror stories
from my fellow volunteers about their counterparts.
But Dian is the exception to the rule.
She is smart, motivated, and open to change.
A PCV's dream.

Our first, but definitely not last picture of "the gang". I met these kindrid spirits a week ago while we were adjudicating a mock English debate. They are the first Indonesians I've met that are around my age. They are smart, talented, funny, well-traveled, and speak nearly perfect English. They are from the capitol city of Jakarta and have proven every one of my preconcieved Indonesian stereotypes wrong. They made me realize that my view of Indonesia is purely based on the village life (and a small fraction of one at that). That's like only visiting the sticks of Missisipi and concluding that Americans are closed-minded hicks. Basically, I need to shut my mouth. They also gave me an Indonesian name. Ika (pronounced Eeekah). They also wrote a song for me called "Teh Ika" about the incredible evening we spent together in Bandung. Meeting them was a true breakthrough for me.

The phone calls and deuboucherous gatherings with my fellow PCVs in the wild West of Java. My friends. My allies. My sources of strength and inspiration. We may all live hours apart from each other. But no one is alone in this.

But especially this guy.
My #1 ally and partner in crime through one of the toughest experiences of our lives.
Our first 6 months getting to know each other were in the trenches of life
and we're still kickin and kissin, laughing and loving through it all.
That's more than a happy thought. It's a hopeful one.

My big beautiful family, all ages and personalities, and hands down the most generous
and openly loving group of people that welcomed me with open arms, hearts and smiles.
Always providing me opportunities to be grateful, to laugh and to grow into who I set out to become.
In truth, Indonesians are one of the most warm, welcoming, and helpful people I have ever met.

Now wasn't that precious?

Yes, August was especially hard. But without being pushed to my limit, I never would have known what I was truly capable of. I'm taking control of my reactions to my situation, letting go of the absurdity that exists around me, and trying to stay present. 

I can feel myself getting stronger here. 

But the happiest thought of all, the one that most aleviates living in the absurdity, the corruption, the ignorance, the disorganization and inefficiancy of Indonesia is this:

Teaching. Getting a chance to inspire. To make 'em laugh. To mix it up.
To be an example of a woman who is as strong and independent as any man they know.

I can really make a difference here. 

I can educate on seemingly mundane skills I've been just sitting on back home like knowledge about dental hygiene, basic health and nutrition, my experience with childcare, cooking, comparative observations about different countries, and actually, most of all, my background in theatre. My life dedicated to theatre is more tightly correlated to my newfound passion to help the world than I ever could have imagined. Interpersonal skills, empathy, public speaking on a constant basis, emotional intelligence, body language, the ability to naturally create games, play, have fun, and appeal to large groups of people. All so valuable in teaching and simply connecting with others when words fail us. I am able to make an impact here. And that's a great feeling that I have been yearning for since I got back from Semester at Sea.

And really, when it comes down to it, every frustration I encounter is an opportunity to help.

Whether it be to help others, or to help myself.

Yeah, sometimes it sucks to be a Peace Corps Volunteer...

But it's the best thing I've ever done.