Perception

It’s 8:30 a.m., but I’m already sweating as Jackson and I begin our walk to the small forest behind ASRI’s organic garden. Today’s mission is to plant 10 pitfall traps within this 100m stretch of land. I’m his field assistant for the morning, so I carry my backpack filled with stakes, plastic cups, and rain covers. At some point in the last few days I agreed to this, and at the moment I’m not sure why. But there’s a spring in my step because, if nothing else, this excursion means a few hours less of sitting hunched over my computer.

A leaking bottle of isopropyl alcohol drips on my hand as we trudge, and feels startlingly cool as it dries. Gibbons call from the nearby mountain, flies buzz around my ears, and the sun continues to rise. Monkeys leap from tree to tree overhead and we see swinging branches, but nothing else. Invisible in the leaves, they are a supernatural force moving high above us.

We reach the edge of the plot: a small creek filled with fallen trees, ferns, and grasses, and are about to find a way across and start our work when Jackson realizes he’s forgotten his compass. “I’ll stay here and enjoy the nature,” I say sarcastically as he leaves. But as his footfalls fade and I settle into my surroundings, I feel happier than I have in days.

Behind me an old wooden building crumbles slowly into the ground. In front, tall Acacia trees sway, silhouetted by the sun. I sit on a fallen log and pick up a thin, bouncy length of bamboo. It’s shaped like a fishing pole and I sit, amused, pretending to fish in the creek. Here in the shade, it’s almost cool. The sunlight is pale and silvery. Fat beads of dew cling to spider webs and leaves. And as I watch, quiet and still, my focus begins to shift. From the webs to the dew to the haze behind the trees, my perception becomes liquid and flows through the planes, alight and fresh and in motion. I poke a wide green leaf with my fishing pole and the beads of water dance, jiggling in place, and reflect sparkling light into the webs above. The shadow of the pole cuts the grass below into neon ribbons, shifting with the breeze. Metallic ants crawl over the vegetation at my feet. The translucent wings of flies flick in and out of sight. Two birds flush suddenly from nearby ferns, and the air is thick with the hum of life. 

I remember being small and searching for fairies. Knowing they weren’t real but wishing so fervently it almost hurt- convincing myself that maybe, maybe if I looked in the right places, or if I really paid attention, they would grace me with a sighting.

As I sit on my fallen log in the flickering morning light, I search again. And I see them now, flying around me, buzzing and singing and full of life. That glinting red dragonfly at the bottom of the creek, balanced lightly on a branch with its long, dainty wings. Those spiders catching the wind and flying on their webs, and the blue flies that land at my feet. They’re the same as they were and have always been, but are now the creatures I seek.

New Year

I’m balanced on a blue plastic kayak, pink from the sun and hot from the effort of paddling. The water is warm today. As I rock on the gentle waves, I look out at the sea, away from the beach, and I feel like I could be anywhere. The ocean is such a global thing, connecting me to the rest of the world. I rest my paddle on one knee and let my right hand drag in the sea. The high noon sun glints off of the water and it sparkles like I always hoped that it would. This is the ocean that I wished for in my Oklahoma childhood, far from any coast. This is what I imagined when I played in a pool, closing my eyes and becoming a mermaid. This blue water, sparkling and clear, reflecting the distant forested islands, undisturbed.

I’ve spent a lot of time near the sea lately, and somehow it fills me with nostalgia. I didn’t grow up on the water. The first time I saw the ocean was after my high school graduation. And yet, I’ve always felt close to it, called to it. Last week, we took a speedboat from our small town to a city further up the coast. As I watched the water flash by, I was filled with a distinct, heavy, and almost painful memory of innocence and hope somehow connected to this moment. Some time of my past when I hoped for summer, or dreamed in summer of who I would become in the school year to follow. Reading books and watching movies and wondering how life would be if I lived by the sea, if I lived somewhere else, if I went on a great adventure.

When I was younger I dreamed of travel and risk, so safe in my suburban home. I didn’t know the hardships and homesickness that would come with it. I see pictures of myself from just a year ago and I hardly recognize the girl on the screen. Our thoughts so different, our worries so distant from each other. A year ago I was newly engaged, working and living in Oklahoma, caring for my students and living out my days dreaming of faraway lands and wishing for a chance to explore. Now I live on the coast, surrounded by rainforest, caring for no-one but myself and my husband and wishing for home, missing the children who needed me there. The grass is always greener, it seems. I maintain the innocence and naivety I had as a child, thinking that as soon as I grew up life would somehow shape into an effortless bliss. I think now that this bliss may never come, or only in parts, and that to be alive is to be always at odds with yourself. I wish for peace and excitement simultaneously and feel no different than I did as a child. 

These moments—when I wish my same childhood wishes—are like time travel, so intensely surreal and connective that I cannot believe that I’ve aged. Instead of a woman on a kayak in the sea, I’m again just a girl in a pool. And as suddenly as I seem to have come to this point, the elasticity of time and memory throw me back again. Maybe this is what it feels like to be very old. I imagine my soul will never change, forever in flux between memory and reality. I can see myself ancient and wrinkled, feeling as I feel now that life has always been a series of the same moment of self realization. Why did I ever think differently?

I’ve dreamed of living by the sea as long as I can remember, writing stories and drawing pictures of mermaids and beaches. The water now feels like home, as much as anywhere ever has. Does all of humanity feel this way? Reliving the same ancestral memory? I imagine that we all dream the same, immersed in humanity and linked by a God and a collective history indifferent to our current beliefs. This God that I see in my family and friends, in the woman selling vegetables in the street, in the crying naked baby on the run. I see Him too in the sea and the forest and I know that these things are similarly sacred- universally made, held, and loved by the same Divine pair of hands.

My wish for this year is to honor my childhood hopefulness, to work for and become daily the person I promised myself I would be. And I hope that we all can live in the present and love each other and the world around us with an unbiased respect and reverence, full of innocence, hope, and awe.

Tidal

It’s a hot Saturday morning with the promise of sunburn. I walk with my husband and our young guide, Mas Anton, down a damp gravel path, stones sticking between our toes. We're about to go tubing through Goa Pindul, a cave full of bats and stalactites. The pictures online boast spacious blue waters. As we finally arrive, life vests donned and inner tubes in hand, it’s obvious we’ve been misled.

Ahead of us is the shore of the river, but we see no clear blue water. Instead, a vast and endless sea of humanity waits to be herded through the mouth of the cave. It appears that all of Jogja has decided to join us on the river. Our guide is just one of dozens funneling people from the shore. Jackson and I accept our fate and join the crowd, bobbing on our inner tubes until we are absorbed by the mass of people. As we become one with the river of tubes, we are pleasantly surprised. Surrounded by hundreds of strangers, the mood is carefree and childlike. Grown men splash each other and giggle, their laughs echoing through the cave. I look at my husband, wide-eyed, and begin to laugh as well. How fun to be surrounded by a sea of happy people, to be able to share this sunny weekend day with them! 

The water is still and warm beneath us. Rubber tubes bump against each other, squeaking and squishing as we’re moved along. Mas Anton is learning English, so he and Jackson chat happily about the cave, the bats, the river. He shares the words in Indonesian and asks for translations which Jackson provides. I watch in silence, smiling, observing my surroundings. The interior of the cave is vast and dark. There are great sections that have been sanded smooth, but some active stalactites still remain, dripping cold water. The ceiling is black with guano, and small fruit bats hang happily in the darkness. There is still life here, but much of our surroundings are not what they once were, and I can’t help but wonder what this cave would have looked like hundreds of years ago, before it was touched by humans and worn smooth from the constant traffic of tubers. I feel a brief sting of shame for adding my part to its erosion, and wonder if others feel the same.

Eventually the mouth of the cave disappears from view, taking the daylight with it. We’re surrounded by people, with water beneath us and dark looming shadows above. Bats flitter overhead while people laugh and splash, taking pictures and waving flashlights across the void. It’s dark in the cave now, and eerie in a way that is post-apocalyptic. I feel like a refugee during a bombing raid, waiting in a subway tunnel with flashlights and story telling to pass the time. 

“This is how the zombie apocalypse begins,” I say to Jackson, eyes alight with imagining. “We’d hear a scream from up above and then turn to see a wave of people and inner tubes coming toward us as people struggled to escape.” “Each one turning to bite their neighbor,” he adds. A man coughs loudly behind us. “And there’s patient zero.” I continue to dream up disaster scenarios as we bob along. 

Soon a light appears at the edge of the cave. It grows slowly until we’re squished back into daylight. People squirm out of their tubes and climb to shore, on to the next adventure. Jackson and I swim in the spring water for a little while longer and decide to take a short trip to a different section of the river to continue tubing. After clambering ashore, we’re corralled into the back of a truck with a family from Bali. The little boy is practicing his English and switches back and forth between singing the Dora theme song and insulting his siblings. “You’re so ugly I could die,” he says. Jackson and I are pleased. 

The ride is brief but bouncy. We pass some eucalyptus and the mom reaches out to pluck a few leaves and share them with me. We rub them on our wrists as perfume. Everyone is happy and smiling, even when we lurch to a stop at a steep incline and gravity squishes us into a lump. Eventually we are freed, and we pluck our inner tubes from the truck bed. We’ve stopped in the midst of a field and must walk single-file down a thin dirt path. I carry my tube on my shoulder, but the mom tells me instead to use my head. I look around and notice that everyone else’s tubes are hanging from their brows, so I comply, but mine slips down and blinds me for the entire walk to shore. 

We come upon the river and scramble down muddy banks to the cool brown water. Jackson steps in a boggy section and is suctioned in mud up to his knees. I’m already scooting on my bottom to avoid slipping to my death, so I laugh at him and scoot in a different direction. The well-earned water is cool and lovely. This section of the river is much less crowded, and we see waterfalls and small rapids up ahead. As we float past groups of happy tubers, we see old ladies splashing each other with their feet, wearing big sunglasses and bright pink hijabs. We bounce off the riverbank and hold hands as we swirl around in the water. Our cheeks are pink with the sun and our hearts are full. We come to a point on the river with the last bit of easy road access and, regrettably, this is where our float ends. The river flows on, cool and inviting, but we leave and head back to the car.

Our next stop is the sea. We have a specific beach in mind, but after a few wrong turns and a much longer drive than anticipated, we end up at another called Pantai Siung. As usual, it’s a happy accident; this place is quiet and serene. There are no crowds here, and the tide rushes in over shallow coral. Huge islands of rock loom at the edges of the shore, topped with generous dollops of greenery. The ocean is berry blue jello, and I want to eat it. 

Jackson and I play on the inactive reef. Timeworn coral is now home to dozens of tidal pool creatures. Jacksons eyes are wide with excitement as he steps from pool to pool, looking for new animals. He calls out to me when he finds something good. “Urchins over here!” “There’s a crab under that rock!” I follow, squatting to look at his discoveries, my sandals slurping and sucking at the algae. The water is so full of life. There are tiny fish everywhere we step, swirling in patterns through the clear, warm water. We find half an eel and wonder what happened to the other half. We find a purple snail and big, skittering crabs. We find a friend on the reef who willingly takes our picture before posing for a selfie of his own. And then just as we’re about to head back to the sand in search of a snack, we see two men hacking away at the coral, filling their backpacks with rock and reef alike. I don’t know what they’re doing, so I ask. “They’re harvesting coral,” Jackson says. “Probably for the aquarium trade.” I’m baffled. I look at the reef beneath my feet, imagine it shrinking, then gone. Where would the fish go? What of the crabs?

Once more I’m left to wonder what this world would have looked like before humans came to harvest it as their own. How much is left and how long will it last? When will we realize that it’s not ours to take?

Waking Up in Java

We’re bumping along a steep gravel road–if you can call it a road–on our way to an ancient Javanese cemetery when the realization finally hits me: I’ve moved to another country. The girl next to me sleeps peacefully, her head bouncing off the window frame and tipping over onto my shoulder through the twists and turns as we ascend. She’s used to this kind of terrain and naps unfazed, peacefully unconscious while the rest of us scoot and squirm to readjust. 

The air is cooler up here. We’re pulling out of the city below, and with it we’re leaving behind the dense humidity that you’d expect from a tropical island. A big island, and the most populous island in the world, but an island still. Java teems with life and urban amenities but at its heart still holds the memory of the rainforest that once was.

In the backseat of the van (a black van with the word ‘luxury’ affixed to the back–luxurious because it contains adult sized seats and air conditioning), I am squeezed up close to my husband. My knees knock against his, our hands lay casually in each other’s laps. Close proximity is something we’ve endured for months now. From honeymooning through India this summer to bunking at my Dad’s in the interim between deciding to move to Indonesia and the deed itself, it’s lucky that we get along so well. More than lucky, really. This kind of comfort and ease that I normally associate with alone time has now morphed into us-time and we-time and it happened so smoothly and seamlessly that I can’t remember the shift. He and I, as close of friends as you can be, and I’m sure thankful to have him by my side as I ride this wave of change. 

We arrive at the cemetery and the girl beside me wakes and blinks a few times, oblivious to the chaos of the road. “Tidak mau bangun,” she says playfully, still half asleep. “I don’t want to wake up.” But she does and we slide out of the van into the cloudy, still air.

The cemetery is old and romantic. Great stone shapes emerge from the warm humidity. Moss and mold crawling across the rocks give the impression that this place has always been, and is certainly not manmade. We change into traditional Javanese clothing–a must before entering the tomb of Sultan Agung. I crowd into a tiny changing room with an older Swiss woman named Barbara where we strip to our undies before two small Javanese women wrap us in batik. Barbara and I giggle at each other, wide eyed with embarrassment but unable to communicate with words. Once firmly tucked and pinned, we are pushed out once more into the sunlight where we find our men looking just as silly as we feel. But it is an honor to dress this way and to enter this place with respect, the weight of tradition thick and atmospheric. 

Through the gate, we climb a daunting set of steps. A woman beside me pants with exertion. Our hands are full of our skirts, lifted so we don’t trip as we climb. We arrive at the tomb but must wait, so we kneel outside the tiny doorway through which we can only see darkness. A man sitting crosslegged beside our party burns incense in a great bowl. The smoke is dense and my lungs tighten, but I force myself to relax, to ignore the aching of my knees and ankles and to breathe in the incense and take in this moment. Soon it is our turn to enter the tomb. One by one, we climb the three small steps and crouch to fit through the tiny door. Struggling to see in this tangible darkness, we make small squeaks of surprise as we step on feet and bump into walls, but finally we find our place in the tomb and stand as our eyes adjust. Sultan Agung rests before us in a low stone enclosure covered with flower petals. We add our own petals to the mix. An old man on the other side of the tomb invites us to kneel and kiss a sacred stone. As Barbara and her husband comply, I poke Jackson and whisper, “Do we have to?” The answer is no, so we wait solemnly until the ceremony has ended, and then climb back out of the tomb, where the thick incense and dense air feels startlingly cool and fresh compared to the staleness within. 

Our stay at the cemetery is short. Many more tourists await entrance, and as we change back to our street clothes I do feel that I’ve experienced something real, maybe even powerful. But then we’re back in the van, and it is so easy to forget those kinds of feelings when you return to ordinary life.

Our next stop is a pine plantation, Hutan Pinus, at the top of the mountain. It’s even cooler up here. It feels almost like fall, and makes me nostalgic for home. Pine trees are not native to Java. They're an unnatural sight here, and as such have become a tourist attraction. Happy families picnic on rust colored pine needles beneath the high canopy. The cool air, the pines, and the structured rows of the plantation make me feel like I’m on another planet, a planet still being terraformed by someone that is not quite sure what real forest looks like. There is a path made of wooden planks that winds playfully through the rows. Tree houses and lookout points are built throughout, and the whole place seems childlike and surreal. 

Jackson and I walk to the top of the hill, to an overlook point where we can see all of Jogja below us. The hillside sprawls down, full of greenery. To an untrained observer like myself, it looks like natural vegetation. Rainforest, even. But these are fields and plantations, land altered by man, new-growth forest at best. Once, this whole island was covered in forest, dense and full of life. Now it is full of a different kind of life, much less varied. “One day,” Jackson says, “I can imagine a scenario when these farm fields could grow back to forest. Maybe in a hundred years when farming becomes less important.” 

Once more I feel like I’m witnessing something important, maybe even powerful. This island with all of its memories, human and nonhuman. The weight of the past lying dormant beneath us. It is one of many times when I feel the ache in my chest–the knowledge that I won’t be around to see whether the forest returns. And neither will you, and neither will he. It’s the kind of thing you hope for and plan for and work toward, but may never see. But this is why we’re here. This is why we moved across the globe. Not just for these forests, but for life and the memory of life. To hope and plan and work so that maybe one day it will return.