This Is What Sendiri Got Me: Hiking Merapi Alone

The culture in my community places a strong emphasis on togetherness. Locals, especially young women, find solitude uncomfortable. I felt it was my duty as a Peace Corps Volunteer to show my community that being alone is nothing to fear. I wanted my village to observe my confidence in solitude and adopt my behaviors. I jog alone, walk alone, and run errands alone.

When I first started doing this, I immediately received criticism from my neighbors. They would warn me “You should bring a friend.” “It’s not safe to go alone.” “It is very dangerous for a female to travel alone.” Over time, their words of concern slowly frustrated me. I soon became stubborn whenever I was told not to be alone.

Last month I was stressed from a heavy workload, and therefore I became very irritable. Every time someone told me not to go somewhere alone, I felt I have had to defend myself. I knew I needed a break, so I decided to hike Mount Merapi, the most active volcano in Indonesia. I thought about inviting some friends along, but I decided not to. I wanted to prove to my community (but really to myself) that being alone was nothing to fear.

A photo of Mount Merapi that I took on my way up to the summit. "Mount Merapi" literally translates to "Fire Mountain" 

I know hiking alone can be dangerous, so I took all the necessary precautions. I packed a med kit. I informed 5 other volunteers, the Peace Corps staff, and my siblings to let them know of my whereabouts. I researched various websites to get tips on hiking Merapi. I even hired a driver to get me to and from the city of Yogyakarta. Of course I had to pay extra for him to chauffeur me around, but in my mind the money was worth it. Even though he wasn’t hiking with me, I took comfort in the fact that someone was waiting for me at the end of my journey.

When I arrived at the Merapi National Park registration desk, the clerk asked me if I would like to hike with a guide or with other tourists. I confidently declined his offer informing him that I will set out at dawn the next morning, alone. “At dawn? Most people head out at 1am.” My ears perked up at this; my brain and my heart then battled over my next step.

Heart: “This sounds like an amazing adventure!”

Brain: “Don’t even think about it. You’re traveling alone.”

Heart: “But it’s a night hike…on a volcano. And I can watch the sunrise at the summit.”

Brain: “You’re going to get lost, fool.”

Heart: “My adventurous spirit shall guide me.”

Brain: “You adventurous spirit is going to guide you straight into the afterlife.”

My brain won the argument; I told my driver and the owner of my homestay that I would hike at dawn.

The next morning I set out at 5am like I had promised. The homestay owner told me the hike was 4 hours up and 3.5 hours down. I expected to be back around 2pm, 3 at the latest. 

There were posts like this along the way, so I was reassured I wasn't lost

The trail was clearly marked, so I had no problem navigating my way up the mountain. About 75% of the trail is on a lush, green mountain. That was the easy part. 

The hard part was getting up the summit. The volcanic crater is made up of sand, pebbles, and boulders. Walking became impossible, so I started crawling up the crater. I was pretty much falling up the crater. Eventually, I made it up to a place that large, but very loose rocks. Each step I took caused the rocks to shake. My brain and heart had another battle at the summit.

A photo of the (almost) top of Merapi's volcanic crater

Heart: “I’ve made it this far. I HAVE to get to the very top.”

Brain: “It’s dangerous. You’re the only one on this crater except for those campers down there.

Heart: “But will it be a victory if I don’t make it to the top?”

Brain: “It’ll be a victory for Death, yes. Plus, you’re an aunt. You have to be there for your niece and nephew.”

My brain won again and I started to make my way down. I hiked up with minimal issues and therefore felt reassured I could return safely. Little did I know it was downhill from there. As I walked down the crater, I saw a guide and two French tourists making their way up. The guide pointed to my left and said, “You should go down that way.” I was already falling down the slope and onto a path towards the right.

“Can I go down this way?” I asked.

“Yes, but it’ll just take a little longer.”

This video shows how difficult it is to walk on the crater. My feet dug into the stand and I frequently fell forward sending a mini avalanch of pebbles trailing near me

That’s fine, I thought. I just wanted to get off the terrifying crater and back onto lush, green ground. I refused to let my mind go into panic mode, so I thought of people saying comforting words to me.

“You got this, K!” said my sister, Priti

“Come on, Tuku. You can do it,” said my other sister, Mukti.

“Go, BEFF!” said my brother-in-law, Rahul (yes, my family has a lot of nicknames for me).

I walked down the crater for about thirty minutes until I slipped and sent a few pebbles tumbling forward. I watched one pebble fall off a rock in front of me, but I did not hear it hit the ground until a few seconds later.  I threw another pebble and counted the seconds until it hit the ground. Seven seconds. The comforting words in my head vanished and I started to worry. I knew I could not climb down it, but reversing my steps also seemed impossible. Large rocks crumbled into a thousand tiny pebbles when I tried to grab onto them. I was quite literally stuck in between a rock and a hard place.  

I decided that backtracking was the best option. I needed to get back up the crater and then walk across it to get to the base where I knew there were other people. I started to crawl back up the crater for the second time. I came to a rock about 3 feet tall. Part of the rock crumbled when I tried climbing it, sending me tumbling backwards with dirt and pebbles hitting my face. My mind went into survival mode.

I can’t let my mother bury her youngest child.

Adrenaline filled my veins as I pulled myself over this rock. Once I reached the top I looked down at my hands. I could see that they were scraped, but I couldn't feel the pain. I then willed myself to crawl on my hands and knees for an hour back up the steep volcanic slope. I know I was running out of water, so I told myself that I couldn’t waste energy. Every move I made had to be calculated; I refused to let my body flail.

The 5 campers who graciously let me hike with them 

Eventually, I crawled far enough to a campsite where I met five local campers. As soon as I saw them, my body realized how much pain it was in. My limbs ached and my lips were dry from dehydration. I was also bleeding from my hands, elbows, and knees. The campers offered to hike with me down the mountain after taking care of my immediate needs. At this moment, I feared being alone. I happily took their offer and the six of us hiked down the mountain together.

“How fast are we going to go down?” I asked in a shaky voice.

“As slow as you want,” one of the boys replied, trying to comfort me.

Both my driver and the homestay owner were anxiously waiting for me at the base camp. My watch read 6pm. Three hours late.  They helped me wobble back to the homestay and waited for me to shower and eat dinner. After I told my story, my homestay owner asked, “Oh! You took the path on the right side of the crater? Many people get lost there…about one person every month. It takes the rescue team 1-2 days to get them out!” He proceeded to congratulate me on crawling out of that dangerous place. “Not many people can do that.  That’s why we have the rescue team.” He also told me that he was going to call the rescue squad to come get me if I hadn't returned by 6:30pm. 

I was shocked at what he was telling me. I was kicking myself and patting myself on the back at the same time. Soon after, my driver packed my bags in the car and we headed back to the city. He made conversation with me in an attempt to get my mind off of my horrible hiking experience. After an hour of driving, we saw a beautiful view of Merapi as we reached the bottom of the mountain. My driver then asked, “You went up there to prove something. Did you?”

“No.” I said as I turned my face away from Merapi.

Maybe Indonesians are right: some things shouldn’t be done alone.

Teaching and other things that bugged me last month

September was a rough month for me. It had been a long time since I had to have extended interactions with Indonesians. After school let out in June, I went home to America. When I came back, I sat tight at site for the month of Ramadan. Then I had a weeklong training in Surabaya followed by another week stuck in Surabaya for medical appointments. The summer of isolation left me feeling disconnected from locals.

When I started teaching again I became easily frustrated with cultural norms that I have encountered throughout my service. Being at school for 5 hours felt like an eternity. Teaching alongside my counterpart felt foreign. My students bombarded me with questions I don’t have answers to. It took an entire month to readjust to school, but here I am feeling like I’m back in the groove of things. I’m a big fan of listicles, so here’s a list of things that used to frustrate me and how I’ve grown to love them….or at least, tolerate them.

1) Jam Karet: the art of being fashionably late

Why this used to bug me: My last job before Peace Corps was a resident assistant position at American University’s Housing and Dining Programs (go eagles). Our motto was, “Five minutes early is on time. On time is late. And late is unacceptable.” When I moved to Indonesia, I knew I would be encountering jam karet, which translates into “time is like rubber” (i.e. it’s flexible). If a meeting started at 2pm, I would be there at 1:55pm, just like my good ole American U roots taught me. Of course, everyone else was late and my blood would boil with every passing minute. Over the last year and a half, I’ve not only learned to tolerate it, but I’ve come to love it.

Why I have come to love it: I’ve learned to use jam karet to my advantage. If I’m running late, I don’t rush myself. In my school, it is more important to eat breakfast, wash up properly, and drink your entire cup of coffee before starting work. I used to feel guilty being late. I would begin to sweat (from heat and stress), walk faster, and ignore people on the street who tried to say hello to me. Being here has made me slow down a lot. I think my fast pace city slicker self needed that wake up call. In the morning, I actually wake up and smell the coffee. My ibu roasts herself and it smells delicious!

2) Students who take notes slowly

Why this used to bug me: I noticed that my students don’t take notes while I write on the board. I’m assuming my students were never been taught these skills because they simply stare at me while I’m teaching. Each day, I have to tell them to write down what I am writing on the board. I used to have to wait at least 4-5 minutes in awkward silence for the students to catch up. I tried to teach them the skill of taking notes while actively listening, but it was only effective on 2 out of 32 students. I gave up and decided to work with it instead of against it.

Why I’ve come to like it: I use this awkward note-taking silence as an opportunity to listen to music. I bring my laptop into class and blast Taylor Swift, Justin Beiber, and Indonesian pop songs. I tell the students, “You have until ‘Blank Space’ ends to finish taking notes.” The kids really enjoy it and even give me requests. They’ve introduced me to a lot of Korean Kpop music while I’ve been introducing them to hit Bollywood singles. Thank you, music, for filling all the awkward note-taking silences.

3) Communal Learning: or cheating, as Americans would call it

Why this used to bug me: I’ve always been encouraged to do my own work. It was a huge shock for me to learn that my students openly cheat. When I ask one student a question, another student will answer for him/her. My students also help each other on tests by turning around in their seat and talking to one another.

Why I’ve come to tolerate it: I can’t stop the cheating that happens during tests, but I have learned to use communal learning to my advantage. I speak to the class in English and expect my students to help each other translate what I say. There are usually 5-10 students who collaborate with each other to decipher my words. Afterwards, they translate it to their peers. It’s a great way to get students to listen and to learn from each other. The students who actively participate see it as some kind of game. I never said it was a competition, but for some reason they race to their dictionaries every time I open my mouth. Whatever works!  

4) Looking Fabulous

Why it used to bug me: Javanese culture (at least in my desa) puts a lot of emphasis on looks. They iron their clothes, they comb their hair, they pin their hijabs with a cute little flower pin….etc. Basically what I’m trying to say is that they always look on point despite the heat and humidity. During my first year of teaching, I could barely get out of my bed without breaking a sweat. I wore the school uniform, which I did not think was flattering at all. I either had to wear a tan army-looking uniform or colorful, patterned batik shirts. This is simply not my style, so I let myself go. I stopped shaving. I didn’t comb my hair.  When people commented, all I could think was, “Why do you care what I look like!?”

Me in all my uniform glory. Not a happy camper

Why I like it now: I’ve learned that it’s good for my mental health to dress like myself. When I packed my bags in America, I threw in a bunch of old skirts, long sleeve button downs, and kaki pants. I figured it was okay to not dress up because I was going to live in a village; who was I trying to impress? I also read blogs from other volunteers saying that they had stopped putting emphasis on their looks. In my mind I took this as, “I’ll look like hobo for two years and come out liking it.” No, that’s not true at all. I had enough of the uniforms and the batik this semester. The loud colors and flower prints are not me. So I asked my counterpart if it was okay to start dressing like myself again. She said it was fine as long as I covered up.

This lesson in fashion also taught me how rude I was being to the local culture. My idea of professional attire do not match their idea. Therefore, I allowed myself to slack off when it came time to dress up. I felt above it and felt like I didn’t need to impress anyone. I’m glad I got off my high horse. No one needs that sort of negative attitude in a school environment!

What I dress like now. My own clothes, necklace that I brought from home, and a new pair of speck. Happy as a clam! 

Don’t get me wrong. There are still things about the education system that bug me. I get annoyed when class is randomly canceled for a teachers meeting. I don’t like lesson planning alone. I grind my teeth every time a student leaves in the middle of class without telling me where they are going. Things aren’t perfect, but I’m back on track and that’s all that matters.

4   

Why I Love Living in a Muslim Village

I have always found “Islamophobia” to be a cringe-worthy word. I hear about it in the news, read about it online, and now that I live in a Muslim village, I aware of it now more than ever. My fellow Peace Corps Volunteer, Jen McArdle, wrote a very eloquent blog post about her experience with Islamophobia. You can read about it here.

http://whenitgetstoonoisy.blogspot.co.id/2015/09/i-wish-i-could-promise-you-theyd-love.html

She literally took the words right out of my mouth. Instead of repeating any of her brilliance, I’d like to take a moment and share aspects of my Muslim community that I find beautiful. I feel like I don't write enough about my experience with Islam and I wanted to take this day as an opportunity to share. Wednesday, October 14, 2015 is the Islamic New Year. To celebrate, I would like to show you photos of my experience with the religion of Islam and I want to tell you stories of everyday kindness that I’ve seen here.

Let’s start with the most audible form of Islamic beauty: Call to Prayer.

Many Muslims around the world pray five times a day.  For each Adhan (the Arabic word for call to prayer) the mosque near my house blasts a prayer from a loud speaker. The five Adhans and the times for each prayer are:

1)  Fajr –  before sunrise

2) Thuhr - just after noon

3) Asr – the mid-afternoon

4)  Maghrib – after sunset

5) Isha – performed at night

My personal favorite is Maghrib. During this time, my host parents shut all the doors in the house. No one is allowed to leave and the house must remain quiet. I especially love Maghrib during rainy season. I love listening to the mosque loudspeaker singing a beautiful Islamic prayer through the pitter-patter of raindrops that fall on my clay ceiling. Maghrib is always a peaceful house in my house.

Muslims and Dates

Huh? No…I’m still single. Why do you ask?

OHHHHH. You thought I was talking about dates. No, I’m talking about dates, the fruit!

People eat dates during the month of Ramadan because dates are known as the food Muhammad ate when he broke from his fast. I didn’t fast during Ramadan, but one of my favorite things to do was to sit with my family and eat a handful of dates every night. YUMMM

Prayer Group

Every Sunday evening at 6:30pm, I go to a prayer group with my counterpart. Each member of the group pays a small fee of 3,000 Rupiah (about 25 cents) so that we can use the money to buy snacks and tea. The prayer session lasts about 30 minutes. The women were nice enough to gift me a little booklet with Yasin, which is one of the letters in the Quran. I’ve even started to learn some of it!

I try to go to these prayer meetings every week, but when I skip the women make sure to let me know that I was missed. They say things like, “We missed you last week! We ate peanuts, your favorite!” or “The meeting was at my house last Sunday. I wish you had come!” 

My ibus and me (in the green head scarf)

When I went home to America last June, they prayed for me to have a safe flight home. As I was leaving, some of the women told me to call them before I left America. “We will pray again for your safe flight back to Indonesia,” they told me as they kissed both of my cheeks.

The prayer book the ibus gifted me

Prayers for the big moments

This leads me to my next favorite thing about living in a Muslim village. Many people I have met here have offered to pray for me at some point or another. My nephew was born last year, but he had to stay at the hospital for an extra 2 weeks because he was born 3 pounds and 13 ounces. When I told my host mom, she immediately put on her prayer dress and headed straight for the mosque. “I will pray for him. What’s his name?” she asked as she rushed out the door. It didn’t matter to her that my family is not Muslim. It didn’t matter to her that she has never met my nephew or my sister. There was a baby in trouble, so naturally she prayed for its health.

Saying Alhamdulillah

Alhamdulillah in Arabic means “Praise be to God.” I hear this word a lot in Indonesia and I say it all the time. This word rolls off the tongue and is appropriate for so many situations. When people ask me how I’m doing, I say, “I’m great! Very healthy.” The response I always get is….

Alhamdulillah!

When I tell my students that I’m pushing the test to next week....

Alhamdulillah!

When my host mother finishes a delicious meal she just cooked...

Alhamdulillah!

When my Peace Corps stipend finally gets to my bank account....

ALHAMDULILAH!

Sometimes this phrase is even used as a call-and-respond phrase. My bapak frequently comes into the house and just says, “ALLHUMDU….” and everyone who is in the house (i.e. my host mom, host sisters, and me) says, “…. LILAH!”

Saying Insha’Allah

Insha’Allah means “if Allah wills” or “God willing.” I’ve heard this phrased used in situations that require hope. When my host sister applied to university, she would tell people, “I will go to college in Malang, Insha’Allah.” It’s as if she knew the power was out of her hands as soon as the application was submitted and all she could do was hope. This phrase, in my opinion, sounds beautiful every time I hear it.