cows

We had a staff meeting a few days ago where we spent about fifteen minutes discussing how to buy a cow in Aceh. “Exactly how much does a cow cost? Where exactly does one go shopping for a cow? Will one fit in the back of a truck to transport it?”

It’s Ramadan, and these are the Topics of the Times. It may have been a very Seinfeld-esque conversation for us, but the outcome will be quite meaningful. We have a special fund to buy Ramadan gifts for our communities to use in their celebrations, and cows are one of the most requested items. So, in addition to buying rebuilding supplies and the such, we’re now on the market for some livestock as well. Not your typical vision of a day’s work, but it’s important, since these are the most sacred of times for our Muslim friends and neighbors.

They awake early, well before sunrise for prayer and a morning meal, then fast the remainder of the day (food, water and everything else). After evening prayers and the sunset, they break their fast with a big meal shared with family and friends (enter the cows, prepped and barbecued). All office hours are reduced, and we don’t eat or drink in front of our Indonesian colleagues. Almost all the shops and restaurants are closed, largely because every other little venue is a food joint or local-style coffee-shop. It’s taking me back in time to my arrival during Ramadan last year – I spent the first month wondering why nothing was open!

Now, I guess I’m a bit wiser about my environs, and hopefully, about a lot of other things, too. One more week left, and I’m starting feel the strange twinges of a yet another looming major life transition creep upon me. We had our first two (yes, two – it’s a very drawn-out departure process) farewell parties this weekend. “We” meaning me and seven of my colleagues (one other with American RC, the rest with other RC societies) who all arrived about the same time I did and are now very good friends.

The first was for us and all our Indonesian staff and was supposed to be big fun with a local band we’d hired playing at one of the big traditional open-air coffeehouses. The day of the party, though, the community members, who’d already given their permission weeks before, decided it would now be offensive to them to have a potentially-loud band playing when pre-Ramadan praying started that night. We can all understand that, of course, and want to be sensitive and respectful of their wishes. But the last-minute timing (and not having a Plan B) was a bit disappointing. However, my boss and a big-personality Indonesian friend serenaded the crowd acapella. Granted, neither of them needed microphones and belted out an improvised “My Girl” singing revised lyrics with mine and Sharmila’s names inserted, along with “Leaving on a Jet Plane” and “You’ve Got a Friend.” It was fantastic, and band or no band, turned out to be a lot of fun.

Saturday night we gathered with the same group of Eight Departees (sorry, that looks too much like “detainees” which, ironically, I do feel like sometimes) for an “expat party” with all of our international friends working for other organizations. It was quite a big soiree and everyone stayed up way too late dancing and reveling (quietly and indoors, of course). A friend/co-guest-of-honor and I deejayed, playing our favorite salsa, Hindi, Arabic, 80’s (for the Aussies), and hip hop jams. (My musical horizons have indeed broadened this year!).

All was great fun, and though our pre-planning aimed at avoiding “reveling” too close to Ramadan didn’t quite work, we still enjoyed ourselves immensely. Later farewell celebrations closer to our actual departures will likely be “breaking fast” dinners with our national staff, which is all that will be appropriate until Ramadan ends in late October.

My official departure date is still uncertain. I thought I had things all sketched out last week, and our D.C. office informed me that my replacement will be arriving on the day I planned to leave, so I should stick around to help him get oriented. Poor guy, I think he has no idea what he’s getting into – the only thing I’ve heard from him was an email asking if he could wear his running shorts and sleeveless shirts to jog around town... Obviously, he's about as clueless as I was coming here and hasn't read up on the escalating enforcement of Islamic law - even men can't wear shorts and sleeveless shirts. Also, the biggest and most violent protests happened outside the government reconstruction offices last week, as tensions here continue to rise for a multitude of reasons... It's a good time to be leaving.

But all that to say, I’m still not sure when I’m flying out! I’m trying to change all my tickets to Kyrgyzstan, St. Petersburg, Bangkok, etc. but it’s quite a complicated process. Plus, if I delay my departure only a few more days I’ll be in-transit on my birthday, and I refuse to spend another birthday without loved ones. So, if I can arrange it, I’ll leave on the 10th of October and be home the first few days in November. I will keep you posted, because though I won’t be in Banda anymore, I’m likely to have a few adventures in my trek around central and southeast Asia.

Please keep me in your prayers in the next two weeks as I search for the ambiguous balance between being excited to travel and come home with the sadness and the uncertainty of leaving friends that have become family and my life here that’s become wonderfully (yet strangely) familiar...

writings

Just because I haven’t been blogging doesn’t mean my keyboard has been idle. It’s been a whirlwind of activity the past few weeks (as usual), and travels took me back on a familiar trail… the measles vaccination “campaign trail.” You may remember my trips to Africa a few years ago with one of our most effective and truly life-saving programs. The Measles Initiative, as it is called, has now come to Indonesia, and I traveled with our health delegate to south Sumatra island (same island as Aceh) to Bengkulu province for about nine days. It was an incredible trip to a quaint and quiet part of Indonesia, which showed me again that each little corner of this enormous, sprawling country truly retains its own individuality. It was a nice change of scenery.

The story I wrote about the campaign was just posted, and you can read it here: http://www.redcross.org/article/0,1072,0_312_5659,00.html

Also, I put together a “virtual journey” that is more of a first-hand account of the day-to-day activities, along with a photo gallery. You can find it on this page: http://www.measlesinitiative.org/vft.asp and then click “Journey to Indonesia” in the top right-hand column.

If you want a more in-depth photo tour, Gene was kind enough (as always) to put lots of my pictures on his website. Check them out at http://www.genedailey.com/2006indomeasles/.

Finally, for a glimpse into some of our latest happenings in Aceh, see what our teams our doing to help communities prepare in case another disaster happens here: http://www.redcross.org/article/0,1072,0_312_5632,00.html.

It’s T-minus 18 days for me, including weekends (one of which will be on an island, the other will be back to back farewell parties) so I’m in total countdown mode… that is, of course, between small freak-outs wondering if I can finish everything and tiny glimpses of realizing how incredibly much I’m going to miss my friends and teammates here. I even had a few delusional days of considering coming back in late October/early November as a consultant to help with a VIP trip. Though I have now regained my senses and am moving forward with my eastern hemisphere travel plans, that consideration alone showed me how very attached I am to our team, our work and how very much I want to see them succeed. Needless to say, it will be hard to leave but plan on having me back in the good old U.S. of A. by late October.

Can’t wait to see you all!

Love,
Bon

adaptation

It’s been awhile since I’ve written, and though it’s always a cathartic process that makes me feel like I’m instantaneously catching up with everyone whose emails I haven’t answered yet, sometimes I think I avoid it. Yes, I’m “very busy” with other things pulling me this way and that (namely, work), but I guess I know that though my environment may be somewhat exotic, my days are often incredibly lackluster… I go to the office. I have a stressful, long day. I go home. I crash.

And then the cycle repeats itself, deviating at times for trips to the field and other more inspirational activities, evenings out at one of our three dine-able restaurants, and lately, sadly, farewell parties. Yes, the exodus of the original team we had when I arrived has begun, and we recently said “see you later” (not “good-bye”) to two of our colleagues within just 10 days. The first was Elzat, who was both a beloved housemate and an office buddy who sat beside me almost my entire time here. She’s home in Kyrgyzstan now, spending a few months with her younger sisters and coaching them through the process of applying to study in the U.S. like she did. I’m thinking I may just have to go see her when I leave Banda. After all, I’ve never been to Central Asia before…

Transitions are happening all around me. Just as projects are really starting to move full steam ahead, national headquarters is searching for my replacement, and I hear myself in planning and strategy meetings saying things like “Well, actually, I’m leaving in October…” It’s strange, exciting, terrifying and endless other emotions all at the same time. And amid it all is the perpetual question – “So, what are you doing after this?”

My most often used answer = “Sleeping.”
My humanitarian answer = “I hope to work in Sudan or in the Middle East.”
My intellectual answer = “I’m going to write a novel.”
My homesick answer = “Buying a house in the South and settling down.”
My over-worked and frustrated answer = “Starting my own business and working for myself.”
My honest answer = “I have no idea.”

Or better yet, I have too many ideas. Perhaps if I come home and sleep for a long, long time clarity will come to me in a dream… I’m kidding. Sort of. I know my next path with be just as clearly marked as the one that led me to Banda. But as I start to see glimpses of this journey’s end, I do wonder what is next…

Part of discovering what’s next, I think, is the continuous process of finding what inspires you most in your current environment. And one of our programs that I’ve loved and grasped the most since being here is our Psychosocial Support Program. You won’t hear the term “psychosocial” in the U.S., but perhaps it’s best explained as community counseling for the whole community. After major disasters, psychosocial specialists help communities re-establish their cultural traditions, community structures, and daily routines through relevant, unique activities. In an emergency, they do things like psychological first aid (yes, there is such a thing) and help set up informal schools for kids when schools are damaged or destroyed. It’s a lot to explain (an entire emerging field of psychology actually), but basically, it’s an incredible program. So, just in case I wanted to leave communications and tackle a new area of disaster response in the future, I have currently immersed myself in a 15-day training to become a certified psychosocial “Crisis Intervention Specialist.”

It’s a mouthful, I know, but it’s exciting. And perhaps I’m insane for still trying to work while doing this intensive course, but I really have too many things I can’t lose momentum on at this point and have no idea what other opportunity I may have to get this training. It’s currently Day 6 of the 15, and I’ve been to most every session, understood it all extremely well, but have met one reoccurring challenge – group work.

Though the course was technically supposed to be in English and all of the trainers are my English-speaking colleagues, each session uses an instructor and a translator, and two projectors simultaneously showing powerpoints in English and Bahasa Indonesian. This is not a problem. However, me being the only non-Indonesian participant, and only three or so others being fluent or brave enough to really interact with me, it leaves me in “group work” sitting and staring off into space while the rest of the group jabbers rapidly about a question or topic I am longing to discuss. So, as you can imagine, it’s a wee bit frustrating. I wrestle with my own linguistical inadequacies for not learning to speak more Bahasa after ten months, and then simultaneously I feel oddly excluded, which is never a good feeling, especially in a training that teaches people how to re-establish community bonds and relationships.

After the second or third day, I was feeling particularly the Oddball and was honestly relieved when the final group activity ended and my colleagues (who are leading the training) and I hopped in the car and headed home. Before I could even utter a word in English to start a bit of conversation that I could actually understand, my dear friends with me, who are all from India, started speaking in Hindi! As I slumped back in my seat, they proceeded to chatter the entire way home… and something in me (selfishly?) just wanted to scream – SOMEONE SPEAK IN MY LANGUAGE!!

But, as we all know, it’s not “all about us” and selfish people are indeed among the most miserable people on the planet. Yet, I suppose we all have moments of wanting to be heard, and included accordingly… Random thought, I know, but I felt the need to share that small little reality of my daily life, as I have spent so much time here listening to people talk and having no clue what they’re saying. Hopefully, though, I’ll come back much more skilled in understanding non-verbal communication, if not Bahasa Indonesian.

selamat malam (good night),
bonnie jean

inhumanity

As world stands idly by, this voice from another writer at a “sister society” has lingered with me all week. Amid the horror unfolding daily, may we not forget the hundreds of thousands in need, and the untold courage of those trying to help them…

Red Cross volunteers in Lebanon: from dusk to dawn - a journey of misery by Ayad el-Mounzer, Lebanese Red Cross

Since hostilities began in Lebanon, some two weeks ago, more than 5,000 Lebanese Red Cross (LRC), volunteers and staff, working under increasingly dangerous and life-threatening situations, continue to evacuate the wounded, the sick and distribute essential relief and medicines to displaced families, sometimes at the peril of their life, especially in the south of the country.

Lebanese Red Cross paramedics are providing the only ambulance service in the country to transport patients from the hardest-hit areas near the Israeli border to Tyre, and from there, to safer cities such as Beirut. It is one of the few organizations able to evacuate war wounded and civilians under fire.

The director of the Emergency Medical Service Teams, Georges Kettaneh, explains that the Lebanese Red Cross is on 24-hour alert. It is coordinating its action with the Ministry of Health and the High Relief commission. With bridges and roads heavily damaged, it is particularly difficult for the Red Cross teams to try and reach villages in the south, isolated by the fighting, where thousands of people are trapped, with little or no food or water. This is also delaying the evacuation of people, transportation of the wounded and the delivery of medicines.

In the nearly 3,000 first aid and rescue missions they have carried out to date, some 2,400 volunteers have transported more than 2,200 people, nearly 500 wounded to hospital as well as nearly 100 bodies. In addition, about 2,000 volunteers are assisting more than 43,000 sick and displaced people. Georges Kettaneh underlines the extreme difficulties they face in accessing isolated people or those living in areas under fire.

Even in regions where the situation is most dangerous, Red Cross volunteers are present in the First Aid Stations to respond to the emergency calls. Between dusk and dawn, their life becomes a journey full of misery as they sit waiting to hear the echo of bombs, ready to receive the emergency calls, and to pull people from under the rubble and the clouds of smoke.

When Walid volunteered in the Red Cross three years ago, he never thought that his mission would go beyond delivering first aid to elderly people, victims of heart attacks. He believed, until very recently, that the hardest and most painful situation that he might encounter might be to rescue someone from an accident or to extract a body trapped under a car.

He never imagined that his life would be in danger to rescue others. And he never imagined that he would, one day, see so many injured and dead people, buried under the rubble of destroyed buildings in streets which seem to be in a different world, that look like "hell on earth.

Walid is not the only volunteer who never expected that volunteering in the Red Cross would put his life in danger. He is one of hundreds of volunteers, working together like bees in a hive, non-stop for more than 15 days. Some of them volunteered recently, after the beginning of the hostilities, in spite of the fact they knew that the situation was very difficult and dangerous.

Other volunteers have been with the Red Cross for much longer. Abdallah, a first aid worker since 1992, says that he became stronger after seeing so many people die. He explains that, although the scenes are painful, the hard days he is going through will not stop him from helping the victims. As he remembers a dangerous situation he and his colleagues faced recently, he says: "I wonder now what could have happened to me when I rescued a wounded person near the oil tanks in the airport after they were bombed." He adds: "I don't know why I was not wounded and was able to rescue the other person."

On several occasions, Lebanese Red Cross ambulances have been hit or suffered near misses from artillery fire. The LRC reported five security incidents in recent days. The latest one occurred in the evening of July 23, in Cana, a village in southern Lebanon. As first aid workers were transferring patients from one ambulance to another, the two vehicles were hit, although both were clearly marked with the Red Cross emblem and distinctive flashing lights. Nine people, including six Red Cross workers, were wounded.

A first aid station in Tebnine also suffered an indirect hit, on July 25. First aid workers were injured and ambulances damaged. The International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) has raised this issue with the Israeli authorities and urged them to take measures to avoid such incidents. The LRC has 42 ambulance stations all over Lebanon and an aging fleet of 200 ambulances. It also has a country-wide network of 24 primary health care clinics, 24 dispensaries, eight mobile clinics and nine blood banks, which are currently open 24 hours a day due to the emergency situation.

awake

Perhaps it’s the barrage of recent earthquakes one island away and the distant reality of another tsunami that are keeping me awake. Perhaps its prayers unsaid, phone calls unmade, emails unanswered, work unfinished, suitcases un-unpacked, or the supposedly decaffeinated cups of chai tea that I gulped down during a late dinner that have me wide-eyed at 1:30 in the morning on a school night. But really, I should have known better... nothing in Indonesia is decaffeinated.

Whatever the reason, I find myself here in the glow of the laptop, the only one still awake in this big, quiet house. I was lying in bed just now thinking of so many things. One, of how my days here are all now running together in a mass of check marks on the calendar, waiting for The Day To Depart (how humanitarian of me, eh?).

It’s uncertain times in this disaster-plagued country. Though I was far from the recent tragedies, it’s nevertheless heart-wrenching to think of those affected... those who have already been through so much. I think the word is “unsettling” to describe it, as I’ve felt more uneasy here the past few days than I think I have the entire time I’ve been here. All the while, the Middle East is imploding, and government leaders are doing nothing to address the basic human needs and endangerment of at least a half a million innocent people displaced by and fleeing from the ruthless, senseless fighting. It’s so incredibly troubling.

Last week we were on “lockdown” one day in the office and not allowed to leave because of demonstrations going on the city. “Peaceful” demonstrations, but it’s almost like the word “lockdown” made it somewhat disturbing. In addition to disasters, Indonesia has its own political issues as well, the latest of which impacts Aceh directly. A precedent-setting bill was passed giving the province greater autonomy, resulting from negotiations which ended the decades of conflict prior to the tsunami. Some were pleased, but others still discontented. Regardless, to me, one of the most significant impacts is that it allows for the establishment of local courts that abide by their own religion-based rules that can, for example, strengthen penalties for women caught not wearing their veils, and so forth. Again, more unsettling news….

Anyway, to escape the fray (or unknowingly get closer to it), I left Banda for Jakarta last week for some meetings, then on to Yogyakarta for the weekend for even a greater change of scenery. No, not earthquake response this time, but seeing a sight – namely, one of the sometimes-unlisted wonders of the world, the Borobudur Temple. Built by Buddhists in the 8th century, the temple was mysteriously abandoned not long after its completion and rediscovered almost 1,000 years later by Dutch explorers. The architecture and artistry of the colossal structure are unmatched by almost any similar structure in the world. More than nine stories of carefully selected stones ascend upward in staircase-levels, culminating at a cylindrical tower representing nirvana, the highest state of existence in the Buddhist faith. Each sprawling level, though, is built of massive stones inlayed with carved relieves depicting the life of Buddha and his journey through the lower states of being. It was truly impressive and fascinating.

The following day we also had enough time to visit the Prambanan, a complex of Hindu temples almost as well known and as old as the Borobudur. Situated closer to Yogyakarta city, though, the ancient structures suffered quite a deal of damage during the May earthquake. Nonetheless, they were still open to the public, with dangerous areas fenced off for only distant viewing.

Though both structures were incredible and built with incomprehensible skill and labor so many centuries ago, I wandered around them with a glazed enchantment, remembering words etched in my memory years ago… The God who made the world and everything in it is the Lord of heaven and earth and does not live in temples built by human hands…

… but in the hearts of all people. Even at 2:00 in the morning...

batty

A few months ago I discovered Alanis Morisette’s remake of Seal’s early nineties hit “Crazy,” and it's become my anthem. While dancing around my room, between breaks from the new Dixie Chicks cd, or through headphones amid our noisy, chaotic office, the ingenious chorus line “We’re never gonna survive unless we get a little crazy” always strikes a chord of comfort during times of fatigue and overload, displacement and delirious glee.

Returning from the strenous time at the Yogyakarta quake, I found myself a bit burned out, fielding demands from national headquarters and sick with some lack-of-sleep-induced flu-like terribleness. If juggling the aforementioned wasn’t enough, we were approaching the 18-month anniversary of the tsunami and probably the busiest time I’ve had here since December 2005. Tack on some internal team drama and having to fire my once-beloved assistant for various reasons I won’t enumerate, and well, it’s been a heck of a few weeks.

Editing and finalizing our 130+ page assessment of all of Indonesia kept me burning the midnight oil like a college student, and that preceding a full week of strategic planning for the next 3+ years of programming, and you have one Bonnie Jean in need of a break. Yeah, I know, “whoa is me,” when really, everyone works hard and constantly. But I guess it's the combination of all the recent weeks have entailed, immediately following the experience in the earthquake zone… ugh. Suffice it to say that I’ve begun my internal countdown calendar until I’m finished here. But even that is a double-edged sword, piercing with the reality that there’s much, much left to do before departing Banda.

Work and life both, though, are far from listless here, and the events of one particular night implore recounting…

It’s supposedly “dry season” in Aceh now, but from the time I arrived, no one has ever been able to quite provide an adequate definition or timeline depicting the true difference between “rainy” and “dry” seasons in this sauna of a land. Even though it’s been “dry” season for at least a month or two, the past few weeks it's rained incessantly (leading me to inquiries about “monsoon” season rather than rebuffing the arid heat). And here, when the rains come, the electricity goes, and at one point early last week, my housemates and I found ourselves without power for two days. Flashlights we had, and candles, too, but the problem of problems was that our water pump is electric… so showers, we also did not have.

After about 48-hours of funky-ness, Sujata and I were riding home one evening with Deva, one of our amazing drivers. He endured a few minutes of our be-moaning before reminding us ever-so-kindly, that in our emergency supplies stockpile (for earthquakes and what not) sitting right in our garage was… a generator. What?! A generator that we haven’t been using during this and endless other dark, hot nights of power failure?!?! Our lameness for never investigating what supplies had been delivered to our house a few months earlier was instantly dismissed by the joyful notion of running water and air conditioning. So as soon as the car came to a halt, we all scampered inside to investigate.

Sure enough, a bright and shiny never-before-cranked generator was sitting right there, along with some extra emergency lights that Su and I ripped into while Deva tinkered with the generator. Within minutes, the generator roared to life, but alas, our delight was short-lived… we had the power source, but not the cables to connect it properly to the house. Thoroughly disenchanted with our “emergency supplies” stockpile, we slunk back into the living room and were immediately greeted by the most unexpected of visitors… BATS.

In our haste to check on the generator, we had accidentally left our front door open, and along with our loudly-meowing, very-pregnant kitty cat, at least a dozen black flapping rabies-carrying Baby Dracula’s had come frolicking in the front door! They were swooping around our heads like a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds, and we all screamed like a bunch of schoolgirls. Su and I hit the deck, while Deva started trying to shew them away. But there were too many and the ceilings were too high, and on top of it, the power was off and the emergency lights were dead, so the house was nearly pitch black dark. All we could hear was the ominous flip-flap flip-flap of their sinister little wings and feel them brush by as they dive-bombed us in torment.

Deva grabbed the tennis-racquet-like mosquito zapper and jumped and swatted, Su curled up on the couch with her head covered, and I ducked-down and darted to make sure all the doors were open. Seeing that Deva was gravely outnumbered, I did what any semi-fearless Southern girl would do – I doned the straw cowboy hat hanging on the back of a chair (for moxy, of course), grabbed the nearest thing I could find to swat with, and joined the battle. However, my weapon of choice was a bit lacking in the intimidation factor... a giant, bright-orange plastic flower left-over from a gag-gift at our Christmas party. Despite drawing chortles of laughter from my comrades, my fast-flying foliage clearly instilled fear in my flock of nemeses, and the vicious blood-suckers started flapping toward the door. Between softball-player swings, I lit candles around the house, and it was likely this move, not my careening giant orange flower, which finally drove the black-winged invaders from our abode…

And that was just one night.

If I were to go into my “tossed at sea” adventure from last weekend that almost left Sharmila and I as the next Gilligan and Skipper, or ramble on about the plethora of critters creeping around Aceh, the frequent tremors, or digress about the World Cup fever that has consumed this country and the entire planet (sans America), I would be typing all night.

Just know that though I’ve been busy, I’m never caught in the doldrums amid this ever-lively environment. I even bought a bike recently and have been riding to work and around town (ignoring the catcalls and dodging traffic like a human Frogger), and this week was blessed to participate in a key “handing-over” ceremony for a group of houses we funded. The joy and smiles on people’s faces as they received the keys to their new homes was truly the delight of my week and among the greatest highlights of my time here so far.

I’m in Medan this weekend just for a break, getting some retail therapy at the mall and some Starbucks to boot. July has arrived, August is coming, and September will be the grand finale… But even as early as tomorrow, there will be fireworks over Banda Aceh... from our party! We're celebrating America right here in the eastern hemisphere! Happy Fourth!!

a bit crazy but surviving,
bonnie jean

earthquake

i just sat down to try to do work stuff, and this is what came out instead...

The landscape was brick red. House after house, building after building – leveled. I picked up a fragment of broken brick in my hand and it crumbled like sand. Dust. Just like the houses did when the earth shook violently. The walls of feeble brick and shoddy mortar caved almost instantly; the rooftops, also red in the traditional color, came crashing in on whatever was inside. Furnishings, momentos, people, families… children, elderly. Fleeing the chaos, fighting for a way out as their homes collapsed on top of them. Calling for each other… wiping away the blood of head wounds, staggering on broken bones, clinging to one another … and then the earth was still. And the landscape was red.

One village I went in that had been completely demolished, a local man insisted on re-enacting for me amid the rubble of his home, how he postured with his hands over his head, in the exact spot where he was crouching when his roof gave way. Then he excitedly took me to the spot near his home where the water pipes under the ground first broke, eventually giving way throughout the whole village, and began to inundate the community within the first five minutes following the quake… so after the first disaster, there was another – a deluge of what he guessed was about three meters of water. And that night, as his neighbors camped in their makeshift shelter in the front yard of their destroyed home, the fire they were using for cooking set ablaze the tarp and wood scraps they had used to build the shelter. The only thing that saved the other shelters nearby from erupting was the lingering wetness from the flood, and the drenching rain that fell on and off throughout the night…

And he was just one… a survivor who had been through the unthinkable, but eagerly and openly shared his story with a stranger, whom he welcomed. As he talked his wife approached with their small child (the ones I’m photographed with below, their house is in the background). She, too, was strangely… happy. Chatting away to me in Bahasa Indonesia, even though I only understood a few words, and the translator couldn’t quite keep up, she kept sharing. To me, it didn’t quite compute… their warmth, their hospitality… amid devastation.

Community after community, the scene was similar. Those areas that were hit hard, relatively nothing was left standing. Though many in the region live with the imposing danger of Mt. Merapi erupting, they had never experienced an earthquake, much less one like this…. Perhaps they were in shock, and hadn’t processed what they’d experienced. But I don’t know…. The common thread I have seen throughout the people of Indonesia – from Aceh to Yogya – is resilience… perseverance…strength of family and community bonds. It’s an intangible foundation that no earthquake can shake, or tsunami could wipe away. They have faced an unprecedented three major disasters in just a year and a half – and have survived, will survive… and continue to move forward

Yes, there were many relief trucks on the road, canvassing the affected areas, trying despite logistical impossibilities to reach those in need. But in addition to that there were local people, with cars and trucks piled high with rice, water and clean-up crews, driving into communities and helping their neighbors – unselfishly – a small but viable source of respite for those struggling to cope. I continue to be awed and inspired by the compassion and generosity of people here…

There was the volunteer from our sister society here who saw the “American” on my vest and almost dive- tackled me, all amid the heat of the day and unloading a truck stocked high with supplies. “America, you are here!” he shouted. “Thank you, thank you, America for coming. Indonesia needs you!” I was so startled that I almost didn’t know what to say at first… “Of course we are, we are here to support you. We’re here to do whatever we can to help…” But from the beaming smile on his face, I knew he already knew that…

And the village chief, who insisted on driving me on the back of his moped through his totally destroyed village because the roads were too laden with debris for our car to get through… all the while the smoke of his clove cigarette blowing in my face. I sat silently, trying to take in the scene from his perspective, imagining a place you’ve lived your whole life where everything is familiar… to suddenly, in less than a minute, have that irreparably changed… He didn’t speak either, until we finally stopped on the opposite edge of the village, and he proudly insisted on showing the massive barn-like shelter his community had built from huge bamboo sticks and palm-like branches. Twenty-five families stayed there at night… and they had built it in just a few days after the quake. It was the only structure standing for miles around…

The field hospital was almost entirely full of elderly people. In the women’s tent, tiny older women lay in bed after bed after bed. Some had taken their clothes off because it was so hot. Others complained loudly, maybe because of pain, maybe the heat… Many had relatives sitting with them, fanning them slowly, sweetly… ignoring the sweat running down their own faces. Medical staff milled about, giving care and gently touches. Everyone was drenched in sweat… it was a typically hot day, and no breeze filtered through the heavily canvassed tent to other respite. It was touch and gentleness that brought relief…

But not all the injured were in the hospitals (which had reached the “manageable” level of running at four times their capacity, from six times their capacity right after the quake). Many with fractures and lacerations had returned to their community, or received help from the many mobile clinics roaming the affected areas. One day when I was with our psychosocial team, walking through a village asking children to come to an “informal school” site they had set up, we met one little boy on crutches whose bandaged leg was most likely broken. He was so sad, and would hardly raise his head to look at us. Other children around him were eager to “go to school” (as they squealed) but he sat, almost motionless, as we finally walked away to get the activities started. My colleague and I both looked back at him… wishing he would join us. Once we returned to the site, it was only a few minutes later, that I saw his mother emerge through the debris-covered street, her own arms bandaged from wounds, but carrying him proudly on her back. She sat him down with his crutches in his hand near the other children, and immediately a group of boys about his size saw him and shouted in excitement. You got the feeling they hadn’t seen each other since the disaster. They paused only for a moment, noticing his heavily-bandaged leg, and then went on chattering and playing. He remained a bit withdrawn at first, sitting at first outside the circle of other children… but he gradually became engaged, moving from the perimeter of activity, to the edge, and by the end of the activity, he sitting in the middle of all the other children, laughing, playing, talking… and smiling with one of the brightest smiles I’ve ever seen…

And so if he was smiling, why am I sitting here so tear-eyed writing about it? Perhaps it’s too much sadness and inspiration all at one time… perhaps I’m tired (ok, I’m definitely tired, I don’t know if I’ve ever worked so hard on so many different things at the same time in my life as I have the past ten days) … perhaps now, though, since I’m physically on my way back to “normal” life in Banda Aceh, that I’m realizing part of my heart is still there, wanting to be there, to be standing on the back of relief truck helping give out tents (instead of having a camera or notebook in my hand)….

“Relief” is a long time away for the people of Yogya – the debris-removal itself will be a monumental task. But I go with the confidence of knowing that neither this disaster, nor those in the past, will destroy the Foundations upon which their lives are truly built…

deployment

Just a quick post to let everyone know we are all safe here in Banda after the terrible earthquake Saturday morning. The quake occurred on the island of Java, and I'm on Sumatra island, so we didn't even feel a thing. The latest update is that I will be traveling tonight and likely on site tomorrow. Please keep me, all of our team, and especially the people of the region in your prayers.

More info click here .

Also, thanks to those that have called and emailed with concern! It means so much...

Love always,
bonnie jean

halfway

Just a few days ago marked six months since I arrived in Indonesia. It’s a milestone of sorts among my colleagues here, but I wrestled with mixed emotions of celebration versus sadness throughout the day, and I guess to some degree always do. Sure, it may seem interesting and exotic to live abroad, and inspirational to be a part of endeavors like these – and it truly is. But (there is always a but, eh?) the flip-side is the hard part – being away, feeling immeasurably detached from the people and places you love the most, the strangeness of never being able to quite “settle” in a place that continues to be… foreign.

But you keep on. You live and stretch and grow and try to learn (some days much more so than others) and you try to make something familiar out of the unfamiliar while still embracing the new. And somehow, along the way, you discover new pieces of yourself that you never knew existed. So, in that sense, I celebrate these as six months of Survival… partly, of getting to know myself better.

I celebrate a Faith, that is sustaining and ever-present. The verse continues to prove true that God is faithful when we are faithless. Applying traditional ways of believing, living and loving just doesn’t work when the shapes of our surroundings are all are all suddenly (and continuously) unrecognizable. But through walking out on the precipice of Openness and Acceptance, one discovers that a leap of Faith really isn’t so far from the foothold of the familiar. And the world, and our Faith, becomes only Bigger if we’re brave enough to jump…

I celebrate the people of Aceh, and their manifestation of Resilience and Perseverance, of having the courage to blend Need with Dignity, Grief with Recovery, and Tradition with Openness. One of the little things I love so much about the people here is their way greeting each other. When they meet someone, they shake hands in a typical fashion, but when the extended hand is retracted, they place it over their heart, almost in the posture of saying a pledge, but for just a moment. To me, it symbolizes their acceptance of one another, and how in meeting someone, they truly take them into their heart. And I feel that’s what the people of Aceh have done with me. And for that I’m immeasurably grateful…

**************
I wrote the above paragraphs a few days ago, when I was obviously feeling a bit nostalgic and reflective. Today, I’m lingering in thoughts of a lovely Easter yesterday. Though I’m far away from my favorite egg-coloring partners in recent years, Sierra and Daniel, I got to share in that little bit of fun-for-all-ages with friends here who’d never experienced the magical joy of watching a Paas tablet dissolve or the seeing the first hints of brilliant color emerge on a once boring egg (yes, you know it IS that fun!). Instead of attending a church service with hymnals, a well-tuned choir and Baptists in their Sunday best, I found myself in a little sanctuary with a few dozen other internationals wearing blue jeans, singing songs slightly out-of-key. But when the preacher-of-the-week greeted us with a hearty “Christ is risen!” and my voice and spirit echoed “Christ is risen indeed!” –- I knew my steps had led me to the Perfect Place to remember the Resurrection.

I am surrounded by rebirth here, and New Beginnings. A few weeks ago I went to Chalang, a small town a few hundred kilometers south of Banda, and one of the areas hardest-hit by the tsunami. We’re doing “immediate needs” projects in the surrounding area (yes, there still are many urgent needs more than a year after the disaster) and supplying basic things like water sources and spouts, building roads and small bridges – projects that are “small” in comparison to other efforts, but life-changing for those they affect. The center of town sits on a peninsula that was struck on three sides by the tsunami. Of the 2,000 people that lived there, only 17 people survived. When our field officer approached the community about their needs, they told him honestly that houses were being built and water was supplied, but what they really could use was a place for their kids to play, something to help them return to “normal” life, even this long afterwards. So what did he do? Together with a team of locals, they built a volleyball/basketball court for the children and teenagers of the community, and now scores of local kids from the surrounding areas have a place to come and play, to just be kids, to continue moving forward with hope and laughter…

Isn’t it always the simple, little things in life that make such a big, big difference?

And I colored Easter eggs yesterday. And went to church, and picked fresh mangoes from the tree in our front yard, and cruised around by myself at sunset. And I felt something more than “making it through” in my own little struggles here… Amid the simple things, I had my own resurrection of sorts, a New Beginning at my Halfway Point… in the little things, I found a big reminder that my own Tale of Survival is much moreso a Story of Purpose...

And is for us all. Happy Easter.

With love from Banda,
bonnie jean

india.3

And so we made it. The haggard and worn bus travelers bumped back into Delhi and caught the easy two-hour flight down to Mumbai, or Bombay, which we learned it’s still perfectly acceptable to call it. The mountains had been spectacular, but we were ready for some rest and pampering to wind up our adventure. And oh, did we go to the right place…

The Intercontinental Hotel was situated along Marine Drive, a popular strolling area for locals and visitors alike, just beside the ocean. Still wearing our bedraggled travel-wear, we were a bit of a spectacle when we arrived in its immaculate lobby draped in modernist luxury. But when we finally dropped our bags in our room on the sixth floor and glimpsed our picturesque view of the Arabian Sea, along with the massive flat screen plasma TV mounted on the wall and the bottle of champagne chilling in the fridge, we knew we’d found a new place to call home… at least for a few days!

Before I left for India, my friend there told me that every country has a “New York” and a “D.C.”, and that in India, Delhi was D.C. and Bombay was New York. So, knowing my love of the Big Apple, I knew Bombay must be on our itinerary. And it took only one look out of our window to know that I was in one of my new favorite cities on the planet (yes, it’s right up there with Vienna, Rome and NYC). Even from afar, the city was bursting with energy, and walking the streets, the people were warm, extremely friendly and everyone seemed to speak English – not just in Bombay but really everywhere we went. After more than 10 days of Power Traveling, we weren’t up for much “touristy” stuff, but instead indulged ourselves in some shopping, pampering at a spa/salon, and ate our way around the city’s smorgasbord of eclectic restaurants and danced with locals til all hours of the night to Hindi club music.

Bombay is also the home of Bollywood, which is, yes, the “Hollywood” of India. Theirs is the largest film industry in the world, with audiences that top U.S. screenings by millions. Bollywood helps cultivate the added glitz, glamour and endless stream of breath-takingly beautiful people that gives Bombay an unmistakable cosmopolitan and captivating vibe. We even ventured to the local Regal Cinema while there, after asking locals what the hottest new movie in town was. “Taxi No. 921” was the resounding answer, and so we saw it, without sub-titles, and still loved it! Bollywood actors often over-act, with gesturing and mannerisms that would seem more suited for soap operas in the States. But not knowing the language, this completely helped us understand what was going on, even though we may not have gotten the conversational jokes. Plus, the leading actor was so good-looking that it was kind of beside the point that I had no idea what was being said because the price of the ticket was worth it just to see him for two hours on a big screen!

Beautiful people were everywhere, though, and not just on the big screen. Dark and handsome men are always delightful to see, of course, but it was the women who created a unmistakable air of beauty. Many had long, flowing dark hair and most wore brightly-colored saris in traditional and modern styles. By the end of the trip, Jennifer and I realized that we had yet to see two saris alike! Each one, like the wearer, had its own unique splendor. Though the context was very different, I was reminded many times of my first trips to Africa and seeing the women there, and how magnificent and graceful they were in juxtaposition to the their often harsh surroundings. India is very different, certainly, but even women in the small country towns we passed had a similar regal mystique.

It wasn’t until leaving behind the mesmerizing country and culture, saying a severing good-bye to my sister of the heart at the airport, and returning to Aceh that I began to process why the beauty of the people (inside and out) was one of the most outstanding aspects of the trip for me…

I had several hours in Medan before my flight to Banda, so I escaped the airport for a last fling with a Starbucks latte. The city environs seemed drab and complacent, and it wasn’t even my post-vacation blues already manifesting… something was missing. I sat in front of Starbucks, sipping my coffee and staring, still feeling a lack of vitality in my surroundings. And as a group of teenage girls walked by in their conservative school uniforms and headscarves, my eyes began to open to the source of the absence of Color and Energy around me. I looked to my left and there were moms shopping with their kids in tow – those women, too, were draped in clothing literally from head to toe. To my right, another woman sat alone, her hair invisible under the mandatory, traditional headscarf… In comparison to the visual boldness of the women I had been seeing for the past two weeks, these ladies seemed muted by their own appearance. Sleeves stretched to their hands, skirts to their feet, and scarves hid what every woman knows is priceless attribute – her hair.

Perhaps I’d been in a community so long where the women I see at work, in the markets, riding down the streets all look this way, that it had become normal to me… or even, unconsciously, a part of me, as I acquiesced my own wardrobe to be found “acceptable” and “non-offensive” to the culture I’m in. Yet, after being immersed in country like India, rich and overflowing in expression (and with strong women who lead that in many ways), I returned to Banda to find myself shocked at how much the overall environment of a place is robbed of its spark, beauty and intrigue when women are unable to show and express themselves. To me, everything around them seems a bit dulled and shrouded, just as they are.

I in no way say this negating the beauty of ones eyes, smile and other features that distinguish a person so incredibly. Nor am I speaking against a religion I’ve grown to respect, a nation that’s now my home away from home, or a culture that’s generous, humble and has embraced me. But what perplexed me upon my initial return, and still concerns me now, is for the women here and in other parts of the world where they are completed denied revealing any part of themselves at all… and I guess it troubles me because through this, I’ve realized how my present environment has affected me personally. My own compromises in something as seemingly simple as clothing style, along with daily taunts from male passersby and other issues denying or insulting me as a woman, has taken it’s own subtle toll on my sense of self. Any woman knows (don’t try to deny) that when you look good, you really do feel good. And when you feel unattractive, you’re less confident, and I think, less yourself… So, in my own trivial little wrestlings with these issues, I can absolutely not imagine what it must be like to get up every morning, and brush your long beautiful hair, and even though you may not want to, you hide it away under a drab headscarf. Then the clothing, the attitudes of a male-dominated culture justifying its discrimination through religion… Oh, I could go on and on, but won’t… this time.

Instead, I hope I can encourage the women reading this with one of the many things I learned in India – to remember that you’re beautiful. Go out today and do whatever girlie thing makes you feel good about yourself – get a pedicure, go out dancing, get your highlights touched up, or do what I did in Bombay and get your hair returned (at last) to its natural color! Be yourself, and express yourself. Wear your hair down and let it flow, and relish in the freedom your community, your culture gives you to do that. Put on your favorite outfit and go out for a nice dinner with someone that adores you … and most of all remember, that you, every part of you, is beautiful. And because of you, the world (especially the one around you) is a more beautiful place…

All my love,
bonnie jean


p.s. Here are a few other random things I learned in India:

1. There is no such thing as food that’s too spicy.
2. Don’t sit on the back of the bus.
3. A little bit of indulgence in a nice hotel and really good meal is worthy investment.
4. Working too much is not good for anybody. Vacations are just as important as dedication to your job.
5. International cell phone roaming charges are VERY expensive.
6. You alone are in control of how you spend your time, and whether those choices are wisely made or not.
7. Few things are as beautifying as a good eye-brow waxing.
8. A change of scenery and good company is priceless therapy for the soul
9. Beware of "friendly" mountain goats. You may want to pet them, but they want to pee on you.
10. That my next trip abroad is going to be to the United States of America. Hope to see you in May!

india.2

So, there we were, in the last two seats on the very back row of a seemingly normal bus. The sun was setting as we inched northward out of Delhi in late rush hour traffic, and a cool breeze signaled that the heat of the day had finally abated. It seemed all the ingredients for a pleasant ride were in place.

After awhile, though, our speed picked up, and pavement gave way to very rough “pavement” …and we found ourselves in what felt like a human popcorn popper. In the back of the bus, the ride was so rough and so bumpy we were flailing around in our seats like rag dolls, whacking our heads senseless at times on the overhead compartment. And this went on for hours and hours and hours through the Indian countryside. All we could do was laugh at the incessant rattling and banging (and our own gullibility in our seat selection) and just trying to make the best of it.

But as evening evolved into way-past-bedtime, we rumbled into mountainous altitudes, and with the new terrain came two new complications – bumpy AND curvy roads, and plummeting temperatures. We had been the first two boarding the bus earlier that day, and naively asked our bus driver if we needed our jackets. He’d barked back a gruff “NO,” so our warm apparel was stuffed away in the luggage area underneath the bus. Yet, as our fellow travelers boarded, we couldn’t help but notice that each of them seemed to be carrying (and some already wearing) a jacket or a blanket, or both. And as the bus strained high into the mountains late that night, we quickly knew why.

We wondered aloud if the bus driver simply didn’t understand our earlier question about needing jackets, or if he had made it a personal mission at some point during our 10-second encounter to torture us. So somewhere around Hour Nine of the ride, we were absolutely freezing to death, in addition to holding on for dear life as our now-madman driver two-wheeled it around 90-degree turns. Jennifer put socks on her hands and I contorted myself into a ball as we shivered our way through those delirious last few hours. “Awful” could be one assessment of the situation, but if you add to that “ridiculously" awful it somehow becomes laughable… and so that’s what we did, until 6:00 a.m. when we finally rolled into Mcleoad Ganj.

“Little Tibet” as the city’s sometimes known, was still sleeping as we swaggered toward our guest house. Most of the “hotels” there are small, family-owned modified residences with 5 to 20 rooms to rent out cheaply to an international array of travelers. Many Westerns come seeking situational enlightenment, others come to research the culture of Tibetan refugees, while for wisdom-seekers of all kinds, the Dalai Lama is a well-spring of instruction and insight, and an unyielding activist for Good.

Nestled in the shadows of the Himalayas, the small community of Mcleoad Ganj sits just up the mountainside from bustling Dharamsala, and both are sweet-smelling melting pots of soul-searchers and peace-seekers from far and near. Buddhist monks in flowing maroon and orange robes stroll the narrow streets alongside Tibetan and Kashmir refugees, regional India natives, and a few anomalies like us. Apparently (and thankfully), we were there “off-season” so were among only a handful of non-locals roaming through the interesting shops and quaint restaurants and up and down the mountain trails.

The snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas offered a dramatic backdrop to the mostly two-story dwellings, with the largest structure in the area being a yellow, modest hill-side residence resembling a dormitory – the home of the Dalai Lama, and many of his fellow Tibetan Buddhists. “Dali” as began to call him (though not to be confused, of course, with the great Dolly Parton) wasn’t in town when we first arrived, but did return during our three-day stay – perhaps because he heard we there? Just kidding. He does hold public teachings, as do other esteemed wise men, but unfortunately nothing was happening while we were there to attend. We did stroll through many temples and took walks along sacred hillside paths designed especially for pilgrims.

People were warm and friendly, and it was approaching Tibetan New Year, so festivity was in the air. One morning we even took a Tibetan cooking class and helped prepare special traditional sweets for the upcoming celebrations. Other than an unfortunate incident involving a goat with an uncontrollable bladder, our time there was serene, relaxing and well-worth the excruciating bus ride! No longer naïve to strategic bus-seating, we booked our tickets back to Delhi in the very front seats, and boarded for the return nighttime journey already bundled up to combat the chilly air.

Just when we thought we’d totally out-smarted the gods of Greyhounds everywhere, we were no less than 15 minutes into the journey and an elderly woman directly behind us started throwing up… and she puked, and puked, and puked until it was inconceivable that she had anything left to puke. Once we finally stopped for the lone bathroom-break about four hours into the ride back, we noticed also, from the tell-tell splatters down the other side of the bus, that someone just across the aisle from us had been throwing up, too. No wonder the sounds and smells had become almost unbearable! By this point, our “let’s just make the best of it” tolerant attitudes had long since been projected out the bus window as well, and we plugged our ears with the headphones, covered our noses with the blanket and tried desperately to sleep and dream of the lovely, luxurious hotel awaiting us in Mumbai…

Stay tuned, one more india.entry to come...

india.1

I’ve only been back from India a few days, but I’m already reflecting much more on the revelations of the journey than the (dare I say) “touristy” details. The Taj Mahal was breath-taking; the Himalayas, pristine; Mumbai, fantastically cosmopolitan; the food, divine. But, as with many things in life, it was the experience of the journey – the people, the sounds, the tenacious spirituality, the energy of a place so incredibly invigorating – that is still mesmerizing.

I arrived equipped – my Indian friends here readied me with a list of places to go, numbers of people to call, a list of foods to eat, and foods to buy and bring back to Banda. Jennifer brought the guide book, and with a general idea of where we were going and staying, we set off.

After landing in Delhi and spending two days there with a friend, we traveled south by car about four hours to Agra, the “small town” (according to our guide) of 2 million people and home of the Taj Mahal. Even from a distance, you could begin to see why it’s the eighth wonder of the world. In a country with a disproportionate amount of architectural marvels compared to the rest of the world (in my opinion at least), The Taj stood in gleaming white brilliance above them all.

Our first look through the gateway, Jennifer and I both gasped aloud. “Breath-taking” took on the literal definition at the sight of something so incredibly beautiful… and that was from hundreds of meters away! The real beauty emerged the closer we moved, and saw and felt the hand-laid jewels meticulously placed in flower patterns and designs across the entire surface of the colossal structure. And the symmetry of the building, built hundreds and hundreds of years ago, personified perfection and balance down to the centimeter.

So, yes, it was incredible, and I could probably write this entire post about its brilliance, but before I drone on, I will share one little interesting tid-bit that I learned. Most of you probably know that The Taj is a “monument of love” of sorts, that Shah Jehan built for his favorite wife after she died giving birth to their 14th child (the other wives gave him no kids, no wonder she was favorite). Anyway, his plan all along was to build a matching Taj for himself that was black marble instead of white marble within sight, just across the river. But he died before realizing his vision, or there would be two Taj Mahals instead of one! Interesting, eh?

In the evening, we made the bumpy, four-hour trek west to Jaipur, or “the Pink City.” Years ago, the facades of buildings there were all “washed” with a pink-ish coating that lingers still today, giving the city a unique and lovely ambiance. It was Saturday night as we traveled, too – the day of weddings in the season of weddings, so mile after mile we saw wedding parties celebrating along the roadways. Ensembles that looked like marching bands played traditional Hindi songs, revelers danced, and grooms adorned like sultans sat atop bedecked horses. (Watch the movie Monsoon Wedding when you get a chance and you’ll get a glimpse into Indian weddings and many of the characters and personalities common in that part of the world. And, it has a great soundtrack that I’m listening to right now!)

After touring the palaces and sights in “the Pink City” the next day, we returned to Delhi (on a much less bumpy highway) and returned in time dine with our friend and secure our bus tickets for the next day… a booking which turned out to be a grave error and unforgettable adventure at the same time.

Dharamsala – the destination, near Mcleoad Ganj, the home of the Dalai Lama. An estimated 12 hours overnight bus ride north into the Himalayas from Delhi. Were we crazy? Perhaps, but it was the shortest/cheapest way to get there so we figured it couldn’t be so bad. UNTIL the bus started rolling and we instantly realized why no one else had bought the last two tickets for the last two seats in the bus…

To be continued...

valentines

I just left Banda Aceh for the fourth time in over four months of forever. It’s my first time traveling alone since journeying here and I’d almost forgotten the idyllic solitude of solo travel. And being able to sit by the window. As the familiar landscape below faded into a tangle of evening clouds, I felt something unfamiliar in all of my comings and goings from Aceh … relief.

Yes, it’s true – this many months and weeks of working that many days in a row can (even in the most humanitarian of efforts) result in the same condition as too much time in an office or cubicle in Anywhere, U.S.A… Burn-out.

So, you’ve found me not reflecting pensively over adventures or inspirations as of late, but beginning to discover the blissfulness of a real vacation. India awaits. A new continent, a new journey, and the familiar sight of a dear friend’s face. I’m thrilled!

It’s been a grueling few weeks. The “site opening” event I mentioned in the last post that we were planning for a group of newly-constructed houses went incredibly well. The attendance was great and we even had a few write-ups in local papers and much positive feedback. However, the predictable disconnect that occurs in this type of work between “field staff” like myself and those running the show from afar, happened in the day’s following, shifting me into full-blown “I need a vacation” mode. It’s a difficult situation to explain without boring through details, but suffice it to say, that perhaps my greatest struggle work-wise has little to do with anything in Aceh, but more so trying to communicate the realities of our program work (and my related communication tasks) to people far, far away… who just don’t seem to “get it” 99 percent of the time.

Anyway, that’s the downside of things, the very issues I’m endeavoring to leave behind as I prepare to explore a new place. I did have one particularly exciting adventure this week, though – I drove! Well, actually I “test drove” for the first time a month or two ago, but this week, we at last got a car assigned to our house for us to use. Since I had already passed the local “test,” I was ready to hit the road. This may not seem that earth-shattering of an event but, well, they drive on the left-hand side of the road here, so the gear shift, blinkers, and everything are on the opposite side of what I’m used to. But I did it! And amid the crazy traffic, motorcycles, cows, goats, bikes, I cruised around all weekend in our new truck with no radio feeling the freedom of a newly-licensed teenager. It was great!

That was about the highlight of my week, until leaving tonight. I’m in a hotel in Medan now. It’s evening and my flight to Kula Lumpur then on to Delhi leaves in the morning. I’ll likely spend the evening repacking my over-stuffed suitcase and trying (at last) to catch up on some emails.

I’m leaving Indonesia with an expectant heart, anticipating fully to receive the refreshing my soul needs. At least some of the weight of the past few months will still be with me days from now as we reach Dharamsala in the mountains of northern India. Perhaps I’ll find the same refuge and rejuvenation that the Dali Lama discovered there during his years spent in exile from Tibet. Perhaps I’ll plop myself down in the middle of a group of meditating monks and pray and breathe and be quiet… until the knot in my stomach unwinds and the pounds of pressure fall off like raindrops in an afternoon shower…

We will see what lies ahead... and I'm certain it will be good.

I'll leave you with a holiday thought, since Valentine's was a more "visible" holiday in Banda than Christmas was. Yesterday, over a delicious, spicy Valentine’s night dinner and pink drinks, I learned from my Colombian amiga that the literal translation of how they say “Happy Valentine’s Day” in her home country is “Happiness to you on this day of friends and lovers”.... and I thought that was so lovely, so inclusive of all of our loved ones on a day that Love itself should be celebrated. So, I’m embarking on this trek a bit weary, yes, but with a heart full of Love from near, and from afar… feeling all of the compassion and prayers coming from each of you continues to give me strength for the journey...

So, thank you… and Happy Valentine’s Day (in the Colombian sense).

All my love,
bonnie jean

afterglow

A few years ago, while taking photos amid the husky gray light of wildfires in California, my wise and dear friend Gene told me about the afterglow… it’s the clandestine light cast after the setting sun sinks below the horizon. Many photographers make the mistake of capturing the sunset, and walking away. But the veterans know if you wait just a few minutes longer, the sky erupts again, with light reflecting through a new prism of colored clouds that’s often more spectacular than the first. But the key is… one must wait for the afterglow.

Perhaps I’m in the afterglow of my time here in Indonesia. The brightly-lit busyness of the first few months segwayed into what at times felt like the darkness of the past few weeks. But now, now the light is peaking through again, and I’m waiting and watching as beautiful hues reform against the clouds.

On my last blog my sister Angie gave me what I felt like was Divine Permission to write about boring things. Because, yes, I often do feel like things are monotonous and that I’ve transplanted myself into the eastern hemisphere yet still have an office job. It’s excruciating at times. But it’s all part of it, and that part I know I haven’t written very much about, for obvious reasons. So, be forewarned, that what follows will likely not be inspirational or exciting, but it’s still… me.

I have the Yellow Palace to myself tonight and am sitting outside on the porch enjoying the cacophony of insects and our orange kitty who probably thought we’d abandoned him. My housemates are still in Medan at a team training that I bailed out of early today because work duties lured me back. I went there on Saturday, and since it’s third or so largest city in Indonesia, there was actually stuff to do… and a Starbucks. I helped with set up and then participated in what was and is a week of programmatic and strategic planning jibber jabber that in many ways was… fascinating. It stirred in me the reoccurring realization that I really do miss being in school. When one gets excited to talk about qualitative and quantitative analysis, there’s certain to be a problem… Problem. Now that starts with a “p” which makes me think of Ph.d… oh, one day, one day...

Anyway, it was good, interesting and a lot of togetherness. Sometimes I feel like my world exists only of these 15 or so people! But I had some good food in the evenings and a nice shower and squishy bed in the hotel, did some shopping and oh, had a semi-disastrous salon experience…

My hair has gotten long, really long for me in recent years, and though I’d decided to let it grow so I could continue wearing it in a ponytail 24/7, what I really needed was a color. My once-lovely highlights had grown out halfway down my head, and well, the gray was showing. So, to simplify things, I decided to ask for just one color and get it all dyed back my natural color – medium brown. Pretty straightforward, I thought, and easy to communicate with a book of samples to point to and a colleague there translating for me. But oh no, it wasn’t simple at all.

Suffice it to say, two hours later, after having my hair methodically painted with some substance that smelled suspiciously like bleach and watching my hairline underneath become a dark shade of orange, the hair was washed, the towel removed and as I saw it unveiled in the mirror all I could say was, “Oh my god!”

And so now, my hair is far, far from a nice shade of “medium brown.” It’s more like an orangey-reddish sorta brown that glows much more vividly in the front than in the back. But I guess that “simple” request was much like many things in my life the past few months… it was Lost in Translation.

The adventures large and small, trivial and significant, never seem to stop.

Speaking of, I’m going to India later this month and am absolutely thrilled. We have “R & R” every few months that’s basically just a free week off, implemented because there were so many people way too stressed out that never could tear themselves away from work. But I will indeed be exiting Indonesia, and what better place to go than somewhere I’ve wanted to see for as long as I can remember… and now it’s only a short plane flight (or two) away! My dear friend Jennifer (aka The Cowgirl) is coming from D.C. to meet me in Delhi, so not only do I get to traipse through a new country, I get to journey with someone I love and adore and have missed terribly. It will be amazing!

Work-wise, I’m organizing an event for Monday with one of our big partner organizations (working again with the guy who I met within my first few weeks here who was the veteran journalist I thought could be a mentor). One of the housing sites we’re funding through them is finished so we’re doing an “Opening Ceremony” where we’ll hand over keys to the families moving in, have the big wigs speak, and hopefully have some media come out, too, to spread the good news. I’ve gone through every back alley way I know trying to get the Aceh governor to come, and right now it’s looking like the Southern Charm may just have prevailed in Indonesia again… Will let you know how it all goes, so just say a prayer for us Monday morning (Sunday night there) that it all comes together. There are many, many loose ends left to tie up which is why I’m back in Banda from the training earlier than everyone else…

And this event honoring and celebrating the 42 persevering families who will at last have a home to call their own again is just one sliver of light of the Afterglow shining on me in Aceh. My head is so full of ideas that I’ve only partially begun to get down on paper, and hopefully, in the coming weeks will be able to get it all formed into a strategic communication plan for our program here. I want to do and leave something that’s sustainable… long after my journey here has ended. There are lots of people that need to hear from us, and most of all, the people we’re trying to help. And uncovering and understanding the best means through which to do that is a challenge in and of its self… But I’m putting together the pieces of the puzzle, which will likely form a blank canvas to then create upon. Endless possibilities are slightly scary, but mostly… exciting.

I read something today that really moved me and is a link I wanted to share. It was an article from MSF/Doctors Without Borders and described the 10 most underreported humanitarian stories in the world today. Scrolling through line of line of text reawakened a profound awareness of the Reality of the world we live in, and was a good dose of, well, Reality…. Having been mentally wandering through the ups and downs of day to day trying to figure out, carve or create a place and role for myself here, I had forgotten about so much… and even so much of what was happening not too long ago in the community I’m immersed in – civil conflict, people dying of diseases completely curable in the Western world – it’s taking place somewhere in the world every single minute. And I share this not to depress you, but to reawaken you, because maybe you need it like I did… and because we can’t help solve problems that we chose to ignore. Awareness equals Action… and I believe we are all Called To Make Difference.



With love and prayers from Banda,
bonnie jean

irma

It’s was just after 7:00 a.m. this morning, and I was lying in bed waiting to hit snooze again on my phone alarm, when all of a sudden my door flung open. It was our doe-eyed, adorable housekeeper – Irma. “Bone-y, Bone-y,” she squealed in a voice entirely too early for me, pre-coffee.

“Yes, Irma?”

“Today. Irma (she points at herself every time she says her name). Birthday. Irma. Birthday. Today.”

Suddenly, I was awake.

“Really?” I said with a half-asleep smile.

“Yes. Irma (pointing again). Seventeen. Today.” She was beaming from ear to ear at simple expression of this annual milestone.

And for her, it truly is, and as I awakened enough to realize it, I understood perhaps why this young girl was celebrating life with such sincere joy… because she has known so well its ending.

Irma was just fifteen last year when the tsunami hit Banda Aceh, taking with its destructive fury both of her parents, her siblings, her community – and for a teenage girl, basically her entire world. Her grandmother survived, but died just this past week.

Like thousands of others, Irma eventually moved into a barrack camp, and a new family emerged around her – older people that looked out after her a bit (one lady being another housekeeper who recommended Irma for the job with us). But she was a young pretty girl, relatively alone, and soon found herself surrounded by other teenage orphans… one of which became her husband.

Yes, sweet little now-seventeen-year-old Irma is married to an equally adorable boy just a few years older than her. Both of them had no family, so they have now become family for each other, while also abiding by the strict cultural standards that permit little interaction with the opposite sex unless you’re married.

And today, Irma was thrilled to celebrate life… her own.

She, unlike so many others, has a husband, a job that she seems to like, friends, growing English skills, a community that embraces her, and four foreign girls who adore her, despite frequent laundry mishaps and odd placement of cheese and other items in the cabinets instead of in the fridge.

So, needless to say, I awoke with a smile, refreshed already at seeing someone so resilient and precious celebrating the gift of Life.

May you celebrate yours today… even if it’s not your birthday.

With love from Banda,

bonnie jean

quiet

No news is good news, right? I hope so, because it’s eerily quiet around here. I’m “between projects” so to speak, or really, am just trying to figure out what I’m going to launch into next. I have a lot of ideas, so just pray that I have direction and drive for what to avidly pursue. Only a few exciting notes to share at the moment, though…

The clips from the tsunami anniversary coverage that I took part in are now online, so I finally got to see the results of what all the hard work was for! You can watch them online, too, or download them for easier viewing.

There are four clips available, that you can click on each to link to – First, a piece on the island of Pulo Aceh that I’ve written about numerous times, followed by a piece on children in Aceh. I’m actually in those. The other two feature our program coordinator Dellaphine (who I lived with when I first arrived), and one focuses on overall relief work, and the other is about the impact of the tsunami on children.

Enjoy!

In other news, my household has expanded here. No, not babies, but new fun roommates! Sharmila and I have been by ourselves in the “Yellow Palace” for a few weeks and our colleagues/friends Sujata and Elzat had been wanting to move in and were finally given permission. They both moved this week (bringing along a ping pong table and a cabinet-full of delicious Indian spices). Aptly so, we’re hosting a party tonight to celebrate…. there is indeed fun to be had in Banda!

I have loved the emails and endless array of cards and care packages everyone has sent! Thank you so, so very much. You may never know this side of heaven what a difference a card or a phone call makes when you find yourself living at what seems sometimes like the end of the earth … So, thank you!

Much love,
bonnie jean

2006

Selamat… new year! Happy new year, that is! And now you can see why my first new year’s resolution is to learn more Indonesian. I know “thank you” and “good morning” and other pleasantries, but making an honest attempt to study the language of the people my life is now immersed in, I have failed incredibly to do so. Translators at my every side are a good excuse, as is the fact that I’ve been “too busy” to take a class – Ha. I have to laugh at myself for the lameness of my excuses… but now, with the crazy workload subsiding, I hope to take full advantage of my every opportunity to learn the words and phrases that will help me communicate at a “connectable” level and better tell the story of the people of Aceh…

Practicing Espanol (which has faded dreadfully since my days in Dallas) is another aspect of that resolve. New friends who are native speakers are ready to practice with me at anytime. And a new Spanish/English book of Pablo Neruda’s poetry will help, too… The vast majority of my peers here are multilingual, and I, with my accented English, have been intensely feeling my own verbal inadequacies...

I returned an hour or so ago to Banda Aceh, just at sunset, and am sitting now on our front porch with a mosquito coil burning (like incense) to ward off the malaria-transporters, while draped in my new pink “Life Is Good” t-shirt (thanks, Cris!). I’ve been away for four days that zipped by ever-too-quickly in Jakarta, a.k.a. “civilization”. It’s amazing that one doesn’t even think about how isolated life is here until you get a glimpse of … a real city, a mall (with stores you actually want to shop in), a movie theater, women without head scarves, a hotel room with a bathtub, restaurants, clubs, bacon, hash browns and exquisite coffee, a variety of breads and cheeses… the list of things large and small goes on and on and on. A few weeks ago I realized that somewhere along my short (yet seemingly long) tenure here, my internal attitude had shifted without me even realizing it – from having high expectations of things and life (i.e. what I “should” have), to simply being delighted in finding the unexpected (like pancake mix and maple syrup, recent DVDs, or a Christmas tree and a turkey). So, a good dose of “civilization” in Jakarta reminded of all the things I’d forgotten to miss…

But the New Year’s trip and all its indulgences were amazing. Jakarta's a bustling (though smog-filled) city with fantastic restaurants (I think I’ve mentioned food once or twice already), great live music, an overnight trip to a lovely island, new friends to celebrate it all with… it was truly an incredible new years, and perhaps symbolic of new years ahead in unexpected places.

The brief island jaunt to Sepa, about a two-hour bumpy boat ride from Jakarta, included solitude, a beach-side cottage, jet ski riding and an Indonesian band that played “Maria Maria” at least a dozen times. Returning to Jakarta on New Year’s Eve, we met up with friends for a fabulous dinner at a Turkish restaurant where I ate more than my share of hummus (oh, how I’d missed it) and other traditional delectables, while reclining on low couches and giggling at the belly dancers. Soon thereafter we headed out to hear a Colombian band so our Colombian friend could indulge her salsa cravings… and didn’t leave until the wee morning hours. Shopping the next day (after what felt like an 18-course breakfast) was great, but soon paled in comparison to my first Indonesian movie-going experience. Along with the massive screen and suped-up surround sound, the theater seats resembled plush Lazy Boy recliners! With popcorn in one hand, a Diet Coke beside me and watching the Chronicles of Narnia, I was in a movie-goers heaven. Another scrumptious meal of tapas and sangria followed that evening, and my state of bliss was very well complete… except for one small thing – my phone.

On arrival Thursday night, I accidentally left my cell phone in the cab coming from the airport. Though the cabbie miraculously returned it (after answering calls from even my boss), I felt like I’d lost an appendage for a few days. Not only is it always permanently affixed to my hand like a painter’s brush, but I was unable to call my family who’d gathered to celebrate, and my dear friends who always yodel happy new year’s wishes from cell phones everywhere. I loved not hearing the ringings of “work” calls, but the personal communication disconnection was almost unbearable. Now, thankfully, it’s back in hand, so expect to receive belated wishes very soon!

But being back in Banda now and the day to day of Life Here, I've been ruminating a bit. And the dawn of a new year has yielded a plethora of mixed emotions, weighing definitely toward the positive side of the scale (of course), but juxtaposed with the struggles of the past 12 months. It was a year of disasters, and the tsunami tragedy bookends my 2005, with catastrophe in my home state sandwiched in the middle. Clarity and understanding of it all I’m still seeking (and may always), along with trying to discern why I’m always in places of human need when I myself am so needy…

I had a friend that left here this weekend after seven months – it was his “end of mission” as NGO workers say – and as he (a grown man) sat weepy-eyed with us in the airport, another friend turned to me and said, “Will you be sad to leave here?” And before I realized it, I blurted out a quick, “No way!” But as soon as the words rolled out of my mouth, I knew that my response was far, far from the truth. My reaction was tainted perhaps by being in dire need of a break (which we all require from time to time), but my heart and soul have indeed become immersed in the life and people of Aceh and my community here, more so than I think I’ve realized. And though I have no idea what adventures lie ahead for me in Banda, I’m certain they will continue to be amazing…

A new year is undoubtedly a symbolic new beginning. And to start my 2006 among people who have lived through the most unthinkable of tragedies, yet still personify the unyielding power of Hope, Resilience, and Love of family, community and God… it is, needless to say, a pretty inspirational place to be...

With love from Banda,
bonnie jean

p.s. I stumbled upon these good Words for the new year, especially after 2005... "And as Elijah stood there, the Lord passed by, and a mighty windstorm hit the mountain. It was such a terrible blast that the rocks were torn loose, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. And after the earthquake there was a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire there was the sound of a gentle whisper..." (1 Kings 19)

christmastime

I should probably be working. But as I sit at my desk and watch as the clock inches within an hour of our departure to the airport, I must confess that I have already launched into holiday mode. After non-stop work for what at times seemed like forever, I feel like I’m long overdue for a bit of a vacation, complete with great food, endless shopping and a proper venue for a New Year’s celebration. Some friends and I are going to Jakarta, with a day detour to an island, for a dose of civilization, and needless to say, I’m excited!

From the media monitoring I’ve been able to do from here, all the toiling over the past weeks really paid off with positive anniversary reports on our projects and efforts, and I must confess, the gratification I feel is immense. And for all of you who prayed for me, emailed, called (or tried to!), sent me cards and fabulous care packages and simply supported me in an infinite number of ways through it all – I thank you, thank you, thank you. We made it!

Christmas did indeed come to Banda Aceh. There were times when I doubted that it would – in a region so steeped in Muslim traditions, nativity scenes and lights and Santa were non-existent. But toward the end of last week, I glanced out of the car window as we cruised down one of the main streets, and a lone tiny shop was selling what I’m convinced were the only Christmas trees in Banda Aceh. Of course, we turned around and went back, and I bought a plastic, tattered Charlie Brown-sized special. It may as well have been a towering spruce or fir for how excited I was. The timing was perfect, as I had just begun to feel the creepings of homesickness. And a tree, which prompted discussions of a Christmas dinner and small party, was just what I needed…

And we did party Christmas Day. Not only did I find a tree, but a turkey, too! Christmas miracles, I’m telling you. So team members cooked, I decorated and what not, Santa brought little presents for everyone, and I even rewrote “Twas the Night Before Christmas” and made it fit life in Banda Aceh. We had a great time, and it actually felt like the holidays …

The next few days were very quiet and somber, as the anniversary arrived, and with it, many memorial events and commemoration services. I attended several – two at mass grave sites and a few dinners, and wherever it seemed wherever I went, the Indonesian President was there, too. Gatherings of all sizes were held throughout Aceh, as people marked the end of a year of grieving and recovery after such an unthinkable tragedy.

I’ll write more about it all soon, but have to depart now for the airport… but I wanted you all to know that Christmas came to Banda, that I am OK now after being so overloaded for so long, and that I’m escaping for some much-needed R&R in a big city!

Happiest of new years to you!

All my love,

bonniejean

prufrock

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table...

I was in a frenzy. It was only a few minutes after 8:00 yesterday morning and somehow my day had already launched into chaos mode. After a late night, I had risen early to finish several tasks before hopping on the boat for Pulo Aceh with some teammates, British colleagues, and media crew from the BBC. I got to the office and hurriedly flipped on my laptop let my outbox empty and watched with growing anxiety as the new messages tumbled in. One after another I that I needed to read or answer or consciously ignore. My mind raced through the next 24 hours, and the calls I had to make but wouldn’t be able to since we’d be out of cell range almost the entire trip. Time is critical between now and the 26th, and a missed media opportunity translates into lost demonstration to millions the visible evidence of their donations at work in Aceh. The pressure is at times nothing less than overwhelming, and I was definitely “having a moment.” Dark clouds poised in the sky outside evidenced an approaching downpour, and jolted my recollection of my rain jacket safe and dry at home and not packed dutifully in my bag. My house was only a few minutes away, but the opposite direction of the port. I had to get going, and the car was waiting. I stuffed my laptop into my backpack, slung my camera over my shoulder and stopped to give Sharmila, my housemate and officemate, a quick hug goodbye. When I turned to bolt out the door, she said, “Wait, I have something for you.” She placed a paperback copy of T.S. Eliot’s collected poems in my hands and smiled. “Read it on the boat.” And suddenly, my hurried, hectic day came to a screeching halt. Stillness and quiet overwhelmed the noise inside me. And it wasn’t until later, sitting on the deck of our open-air boat sailing across the Indian Ocean and reading “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” that I realized why just a little book had touched me so deeply. Only one day before, I had begun a writing a list of the things I needed sent from home. And the first item on the list? A book of poetry…

And indeed there will be time…
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet…
Time for you and time for me
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea…

The blog has been stagnant for awhile, I know, and the pictures and my phone calls nonexistent. And I’m sorry. I am existing in a state of running from one thing to another, feeling like I’m behind on absolutely everything, like I’m not sure exactly what I’m doing other than just trying to keep up. Amid it all, my colleagues are tremendous, and doing not only great work, but great interviews sharing about our projects here with journalists from all over the world. Am I ok? Yes. Am I enjoying what I’m doing? Most of the time, the people make it worth it. Am I eating? Sometimes more than others. Am I sleeping? Not nearly enough. The 26th is fast-approaching, and everything will surely calm down after that. Until then, I will be living and breathing work during both my waking and dreaming hours, and may very well not write in my blog or send another email until after that, so bare with me. Just pray for me. And know I miss you.

For I have known them all already, known them all –
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons…

Bill Clinton was here – was that last week? It all runs together. But our program coordinator and I basically had to do cartwheels through the UN offices to finagle us an invitation to join in on his site visits. And its official = southern charm works internationally, and we left with one invite, which our program coordinator utilized to the max. She’s charismatic and hilarious, and said she was one of only two women, as well as the only black woman, within a ten mile radius of the former president. Needless to say, she stood out from the crowd, and when Bill left, she asked him for a hug, and he responded, “Come here, girl!” and gave her a big ole squeeze.

That same day was the third round of the national polio campaign, which we contributed to significantly, so that’s where I went. Tragically, though, it rained incessantly all day, which is terrible for vaccination campaigns that usually have sites set up outdoors and scattered throughout neighborhoods to be accessible for residents. But even amid the downpour, we found some persevering parents traipsing through puddles to bring their kids for their third and final vaccination to prevent a disease which has reemerged in Indonesia for the first time in a decade. And I even got to actually give a vaccination; it was in a dropper, not a needle. And I felt at that moment like I would’ve come here just to be able to do that for that child...

I grow old .. I grow old
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled…

I escaped to Bali for Thanksgiving and wore flowers in my hair everyday. It was perhaps the most beautiful place I’ve ever been, and if I had to be away from loved ones during the holiday, that was indeed the perfect place to go! We stayed at an absolutely amazing resort for a tiny fraction of its normal cost, and flew ultra-cheaply since it’s an in-country destination. So, somehow, living the high life was incredibly inexpensive. The oceanside hotel and grounds were expansive, lush and draped in flowers and greenery. Beside the lagoon pool and under the palm trees beside the ocean were the perfect places to unwind, along with the spa, of course. Almost hourly, I would wondered, “Who am I?” I was truly out of my element and far, far from the rustic confines of Banda Aceh. Did I have turkey? Umm, no. But I did have what I’ve been craving since I left – Mexican food. Followed the next day by Italian and other delicious dishes, and daily breakfasts of omelets and *bacon* which I hadn’t realized I missed until I ate it. I got some sun, had fruity beverages and did some shopping and touring around. We went to the “monkey forest” where the monkeys lived beneath a canopy of tall, twisted trees and dined regularly on coconut pieces and bananas from the hands of tourists. Yes, I had no bananas, but my camera I did have. At one point I was crouched down shooting and suddenly felt something land on my neck – a big something at that – and then I realized there was a monkey on my head. He took out my hoop earring and hung out for a few minutes, then hopped down and scampered off when a loose coconut rolled by. It was hysterical, though slightly disconcerting.

The entire trip was amazing, though, and I couldn’t have asked for a better way to spend my first holiday away. The only downside was seeing firsthand the lingering impact that terrorists have had on an island overflowing with natural beauty, culture and character. And meeting the beautiful Balinese people and learning of the financial hardship all are now living under after the bombings. The restaurants were all relatively empty, along with the shops, the clubs, and our resort. People are afraid to come to paradise – it’s so ironic. And all because of senseless, heartless violence. But despite it all, we realized after only a day or two, that we never met a Balinese person who wasn’t smiling. They may have been struggling in innumerable ways but were still happy, helpful and incredibly charming – especially the ones who put flowers in my hair. I can’t wait to go back.

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decision and revisions which a minute will reverse…

I can’t believe that it’s Christmastime. It’s so surreal when and if I let myself stop and think about it. I’m so far from overcrowded shopping malls and lights and decorations and loved ones and winter winds and snow. (It was 100 degrees in Pulo Aceh yesterday when I was hiking up to water sites. And oddly enough, it felt normal.) But there are no visible signs of Christmas here, just conversation among the expats asking each other what their plans are for the holidays. My signpost is the 26th – to slow down, to not be so busy and overwhelmed, and to remember with the people of Aceh the timeless tragedy that struck just a year ago and changed this region and its people forever. It makes me feel not so much like celebrating, so maybe it’s best that I’m away from the hoopla of tinsel and wrapping paper… as I'm feeling a growing appreciation for the intangible things this time of year represents - Love, and so many other blessings, both near and far away.

Would it have been worthwhile,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teascups, after the skirts that trail along the floor
And this, and so much more?
It is impossible to say just what I mean...

It’s almost midnight, and I must sleep. Another early morning tomorrow, and again the day after. It’s seven days a week now, and feels like 24 hours a day. I started typing this yesterday on the boat ride back from Pulo Aceh, sitting on the deck in the blazing sun. One day soon I’ll get some new pictures to Gene to post, but know that even though you can’t see me, I’m ok… my brow is furrowed a lot of the time according to friends here, but I’m still smiling.

In case I don't resurface in cyberspace again for awhile, enjoy instead reading an amazing article that recently appeared in the NY Times magazine about the tsunami and focuses largely on Banda Aceh. It's eloquently written and well-worth filling out the free online subscriber form. Yours truly also has another article online as well, about my first trip weeks ago to the island of Pulo Aceh.

Thanks for all the prayers, the love, the emails, the cards and the often enormous care packages. I appreciate it all so very much. Many of you have asked for my updated address, which I'll put below. Enjoy this time of year, the holiday parties and fun preparations, and have an eggnog latte in my honor. Keep an eye on the news in the coming weeks, too, and you may just see our team here, and even...

your bonnie jean
xoxo

Address:
bon
IFRC - Banda Aceh Office
American Red Cross
Jl. Fatahillah No. 8
Geuceu Iniem
Banda Aceh, 23239
Indonesia

Phone:
62 812 698 9387