Kim Jong Il and my Lil' Bro

Anyone who knows my brother knows that his sense of sarcasm is bigger than mine, and one person he absolutely loved to talk about was the dearly departed Kim Jong Il. The first thing I thought when I heard the sad news of KJI's death was "oh no...Nathan is gonna be so upset." The second thing I thought is that we are going to have to find another megalomaniac to make fun of, because my brother and I only communicate through sarcastic emails and g-chat. The following was written by my brother as a tribute to his favorite dictator:

"Fake fur and real fur and jewelry and Jet Skis,

Crystal and Segways and bubbly and Caddies,
Race cars and leather and plasma TVs --
These are a few of Kim's favorite things."

As I am sure most of you know by now, Peerless Leader (Kim Jong Il to you unpatriotic vermin) has left us.  It is a sad day for Korea, and therefore the World. People are reported to be convulsing with sadness and despair in the streets of Pyongyang (but it could just be hunger pains).  In his short time here on Earth and 17 years as Supreme Leader of North Korea, Glorious General Who Descended From Heaven composed six of the greatest operas ever written, shot a 38 under par on his first round of golf (including 5 holes in one), and was the best internet expert to ever live... except for Al Gore. Duh. You can thank Ever-Victorious, Iron-Willed Commander for delicacies you enjoy on a day-to-day basis like the Gogigyeopbbang, or double bread with meat as many of you know it. Highest Incarnation of the Revolutionary Comradely Love invented the gogigyeopbbang as a way of providing fun, quality food to the many university students in North Korea and around the world. I think it is safe to say that the world is a sadder and ronerier place without our Leader of the Party and the People. Im So Lonely...

Rest in Peace KJ. There is truly no one who can entertain like you did...unless Rick Perry gets elected.

Ch. 2: The Murse

Starting clinical rotations as a junior medical student is rough. But perhaps the most intimidating rotation of all is surgery. The OR is a scary place, full of rules, both written and unwritten, and there is an exact protocol you must follow at all times in order to not contaminate anything, as you try to keep the environment as sterile as possible. You feel a bit like a bull in a china shop at first, trying not to touch anything or get in the way, yet at the same time trying to help out and make your presence known to impress those inherently grumpy attendings.

My first surgical rotation three months into my clinical year was Orthopedic Surgery. Stereotypes exist for a reason, as most “orthopods” as they are commonly called are, in fact, former jocks. It is 100% a boys club, complete with raunchy jokes, womanizing, power tools and pushups between cases (kidding about that last part…sort of). My first day of Orthopedic surgery I remember being glad that I had my surgical mask on as it hid my fear that I’m sure my mouth gave away in some form as I have a big mouth and an expressive face and most people know immediately what I am thinking without my having to say a word.

The Ortho trauma attending was a large intimidating man, as were his residents. They all turned toward me with half-hearted interest as I walked into the scrub area and introduced myself, feeling a bit like an intruder in the men’s locker room after football practice. They were nice enough, told me to scrub in and get my gloves and gown ready. Being it was my first time in the OR I had zero idea where anything was, as it is a complicated yet organized system that takes some time to learn. As I stood there, helpless, yet not wanting to bother them again with such a lame question of “so where are these gloves…?” my guardian angel in scrubs suddenly appeared.

At first glance he was relatively unremarkable, and similar to the appearance of the rest of us in our generic blue uniforms, scrub caps, and mask. But then I looked into his eyes. The most beautiful shade of blue-green, they were kind, and I could tell he was smiling at me underneath his mask. “Hi, I’m Sam,” he said. I’m sure I croaked out my name back, but I was too enamored to really remember. “You must be the new medical student?” he said without a hint of condescension or judgement.

Sam showed me where the gloves were, and more. He taught me about the layout of the OR, where to stand, and what excited me most was that he tied my gown for me. Surgery is sexy in it’s own right, and sometimes Grey’s Anatomy isn’t too far off. As I stood there by a patient with his mangled leg that my attending and resident were trying to piece back together, I quickly grew bored of watching and began daydreaming about Sam. Where is he from? What is he doing here? I wonder how old he is-he didn’t look that old, definitely thirties, he had some greys sprinkled within the luxurious wavy brown hair poking out underneath his scrub cap? Is he married…I didn’t see a ring! I must find out the answers!!

As that case ended and we prepped for the next one, I found the chance to talk to Sam. I learned he was from a nearby state, and that he was the circulating nurse for the orthopedic rooms, usually the trauma room. The circulating nurse is kind of second-in-command to the surgeons, as they go get supplies and make sure everything is functioning as smoothly as possible during the operation. I had not met many male nurses, especially ones that were within my dating age range and smoking hot.

 I was only on Ortho surgery for two weeks before switching to something else, so my time with Sam was brief but glorious. He was the bright spot in my otherwise not-so-bright days, and I credit him fully for helping me survive my roid-raging, tantrum-throwing intern and frustration at being relegated to suction and traction duty (really all you get to do as a third year, anyways). I’m a huge wimp and thought it would be too forward to just ask Sam out, and so when the time came to say goodbye I was kind of hoping he would make some sort of offer to continue our two weeks of flirtation maybe over coffee, dinner, or his bed. But much to my disappointment, Sam was not working during my last day! Huge bummer.

Over the weekend I realized I couldn’t give up so easily; hot, no wait, make that DECENT and dateable men are hard to find in Augusta, GA. I had finally found one after 3 years, and this was my chance. I had to talk to him again. I decided to turn to the Yellow Pages of my generation for help: Facebook.

So I knew his name was Sam Morrison, and although generic, surely he would be the only one at my school with that name.  To my surprise though, there were two Sam Morrisons listed at my school. One of them was a medical student two years below me, so definitely not it. The other one for whatever reason, had very little information and no profile picture! That’s odd, I thought. Oh well, what do I have to lose? If it’s the wrong one, I’ll just defriend him later, no harm done. A day or two later my eyes lit up as I received an email stating Sam had confirmed my friend request!! Yes!!!

But my excitement was short-lived. As I pulled up his facebook page, I did the usual scan: Profile pic? Check! A cute one too, he was water-skiing, ok, so he’s outdoorsy, that’s good. Age? 36-ok, not too bad, I like older men. Relationship Status? M.A.R.R.I.E.D.

What the F??? Married? Um, where was your ring buddy? And how come you never brought up your wifey in any of our in retrospect not-so-deep conversations, huh? I felt betrayed. The good ones are seriously always taken. Although disappointed, I finished my scan by habit; employment, hobbies, wall, photos, friends….strangely, he had no other pictures and no wall posts. That’s weird, I thought. Is he just a huge loser, or what??

As I got down to the friend sidebar I was even more shocked by what I saw. Sam only had 1 friend….me. What the hell? How is that possible?? At the time facebook’s interface had a section that told how long someone had been a member. As I scrolled back up I realized why I was his only friend-he had JUST joined facebook, like 3 days ago. Whoa.

The gravity of my impulsive internet stalking didn’t really set in until the next day, when I told my friends over dinner what happened. My med school classmates love teasing me about the stupid shit I manage to do, and this situation was no different. Of course they all wanted to see this murse who had stolen my heart, so I pulled up his facebook page so we could all have a laugh.

But the joke was on me. After the debate about his hotness status, I noticed he had actually added a few pictures, and more importantly, the name of his wife. I am very methodical about my checking out of the opposite sex on FB and have an algorithm that keeps me on track. Step 1) Are they married or in a relationship? Step 2) If no--> proceed to picture stalking. If yes--> check out wife or girlfriend to assess for hotness equality in the relationship. Step 3.1) If significant other hotness is greater than or equal to object of interest, shrug your shoulders and move on, content that even if said object isn’t with you, at least he’s with someone of equal or greater hotness than you so life is probably fair. Step 3.2) If significant other’s hotness is LESS than object of desires hotness--> bitch and moan to friends or mother how life isn’t fair and why is he wasting time with HER when he could do so much better.

I wasn’t quite mentally prepared to see the wife yet so I scrolled down to see if he had any more friends. Friend count was now TWO…me, and….his wife. My mouth immediately dropped open and my friends started howling in laughter as I stared at the screen in disbelief.

My sarcastic and best med school friend Catie between fits of laughter managed to get out: “Wait a minute, so you added him as a friend basically the second before he joined facebook, before even his wife?!” Yep, that pretty much sums it up. As the night grew darker and the wine bottles emptier, we debated on how I could bow out of this situation as gracefully as possible. I couldn’t defriend him now,  because that would totally be obvious since I made up 50% of his friendship pool, and then he would think I was REALLY psycho. Messaging him to apologize for the awkwardness was also out of the question, because what if the wife hadn’t noticed? Then I would be bringing it out in the open, and things might be even more awkward. We agreed the only prudent course of action would be to wait until the friend pool went up to at least 20-30 people, then I could defriend possibly without him noticing? Men are oblivious anyways.

As the next few weeks went by I waited in angst as the friend count went up agonizingly slow. Four, then seven…nine…ten. Argh! Doesn’t this guy have any friends?! Geez!!! I had thankfully moved to another surgery service in the hospital across the street, so chances of crossing paths were slim, yet all the while my radar was up for those blue-green eyes and kind smile. I mean, he must totally think I was CRAZY-who does that?? And what does his wife think? I’m sure she added him, and was shocked to find that her beloved husband’s facebook friend virginity had already been stolen by some stupid medical student. I can only imagine how that conversation went:

Wife: “So…Sam, who is this girl friend of yours?”

Sam: “Honestly, I barely know her. She rotated through my OR and was totally helpless. She was the first person to send me a friend request.”

Wife: “That’s weird. So you guys spent some time together talking huh? You sure that’s it?”

Sam: “Sweetheart, I seriously barely know her! I have no idea how she even knew my full name (name badge) or that it was me, as I hadn’t put up a profile picture yet and she had already added me as a friend! (I’m psychic) It’s really weird, don’t you think? She’s young and probably just another crazy, sexually-starved medical student (ok, so half-true).”

Wife: “uh-huh, sure.”

Finally, the friend count went up to 21, and I couldn't wait any longer. I haven't really seen Sam since, as I chose to get as far away from Augusta as possible for the remainder of my third and fourth year clinical rotations. As the shame of my awkward internet encounter faded, I must admit that I haven't quite learned from this mistake, as I still friend my crushes on FB fairly regularly. But in 2011 I think all of us have more than one friend, so I haven't encountered this particular situation again...although, I have graduated to more awkward in-person encounters.

Lesson learned: There is no dignity in Facebook.

Chapter 1: Inside out

I think we all remember that first awkward sexual encounter with the opposite gender, or maybe the same, not sure, apparently in Fiji most young men's first sexual encounter is with another male. But I digress. But I think this is a true defining moment in a young person's life, when you either freak out and say "This is NOT What Jesus Would Do!" or you think, "huh, this is kind of cool and feels rebellious, I dig it!" Unfortunately, I fell in the latter category, which I think was the start of my hilarious yet downward spiral in relationships with men.

The first guy who batted a single with me we'll call Grayson. He was every confused 14 year-old's dream-older, handsome, sexually-experienced, drove a pickup truck. Yum. Ok so my tastes have changed dramatically, but we all have to start somewhere.

So the first time Grayson came to my house we were supposed to be babysitting my little brother. But instead we made our way up into my bedroom and started making out. I was content with that, being the demure female that I was. But then, suddenly there was a hand up my shirt ungracefully groping my boob. Now awkward boob groping is no longer sexually acceptable in my book, but at the time it was new and exciting, so I let it happen. No sooner had the shirt come off when we heard the dreaded sound every teenager fears in the middle of sexy-time: the garage door.

With speed that would have rivaled an Olympic sprinter, I ripped my shirt over my head while flying down the stairs, Grayson on my heels. We plopped on the couch, faces still red from post make-out flush, panting and pretending to watch cartoons. "Hi Mom! How was the movie?" I cheerfully shouted as soon as I heard the door open. After about a 5 minute dialogue and lots of smiling and ass-kissing from my new sleazy boyfriend, I realized my parents had funny looks on their faces. Oh my god they know, I thought. How do they know???

It was then I realized that my shirt was inside out.

Lesson Learned: If you need to make a quick get-away, make sure your clothes are laid out and ready to go. And just like a good soldier, make sure no panty is left behind.

HO in the CO

So HO=hung over in case you don't love acronyms like I do...So you know when you go out to big greasy hung-over breakfast, and eat too many carbs and drink too much coffee and then want to come home and sleep but you can't because of the coffee that the waitress kept refilling when you weren't looking? Ugh, hate that feeling.

So in a stroke of hungover genius and shared laughter with a friend, I decided to reincarnate the blog. At least, until I get too busy again and forget. But for now, I will write, because I am a fourth year medical student and it's the last chance I get to procrastinate and be lazy for four years so I plan on making the most of it.

Why do people blog though? Does anyone really give a shit what you have to say about anything? Probably not. I'm not sure why I do it. I used to journal, but then I realized I type faster than I write, and my hand-writing is really ugly and "looks like serial killer handwriting" according to one of my friends. Also I kind of wanted to put my thoughts down in some coherent format that I could leave to my kid one day, as my legacy. That is, if I do turn into the kooky old maid who decides she needs something to love besides her cats and adopts a Senegalese baby who turns into a transgender teen because he has a workaholic mother and no male role models. Then maybe my transgender teen will say "wow, maybe my mom wasn't so crazy after all!" Or maybe he will say the opposite, whatever, honesty is always best.

Ok, so new blog rules:
1) All names will be changed to ridiculous pseudonyms to protect the innocent, and especially the not-so-innocent.
2) That's really the only rule, I suppose, except that I am going to try to keep a bit of anonymity so as not to get fired or upset my family or piss off all my exes. Actually, scratch that last part...

:)

The Maid and the Chili

One of the downsides of being stuck in a city that is covered in smog is that you can't walk around, well you could, but in doing so you would lose even more life-years than you already have in your youthish stunts...so now I sit in my semi-windowless room (does a view of a concrete wall count as a window?) and count down the hours until my flight to Bali. Which is 18.24. I'm actually really really good at wasting time, as I have spent the afternoon watching youtube videos about Unicorn Samurais and preparing for the Zombie Apocalypse.

I've decided to stay locked in small windowless room because I am hiding from the housekeeper and because I stole the small fan from the communal bathroom and there is wifi here. There is a promising cafe nearby that is cute and air-conditioned and promises wifi, but it is a trap to lure in expats because i have been there twice and the wifi never works and none of the employees know how to fix it. So you end up with a stale croissant, coffee that is akin to sulfuric acid, short 15,000 rupiah and minus 0.6 life years from all of the diesel exhaust you inhaled on the walk to the cute cafe. and no internet. so i will stay in my prison/dorm room with my stolen fan thank you very much.

The maid does not like me. It has something to do with me giving her clothes to wash that were too "dirty,"according to my friend. Like a dumb foreigner, I didn't realize I was supposed to pre-wash my clothes before actually getting them laundered. My bad. But I've learned sarcasm doesn't translate well, so I didn't waste my time flipping through my dictionary to find a snarky retort to her complaints to my friend. My friend told her she could talk to me in Indonesian and that I might understand what she says, so she likes to babble on and on and on and on and on to me. It's really hard to get out of a conversation where you actually do understand the language, but it's even harder in one that you don't. A sample conversation:

Maid: "alsdkji   dkfja dka alsdjoiaeo adjh cng;ae adjoifoe ckajdj...EEEE adjjoa. adoae...."

Me: "Apa?" (what?)

Maid: "ALSDKJI  DKJFA DKA ALSDJOIAEO!! aldskfoe!!! ajdofjea kjdaout"

Me: "Tidak Mengerti. Maaf" (I don't understand, sorry.)

Maid: "A.L.S.D.K.J.I.  DKJFA aieojla oieaf!!!"

Me (looking at watch): "Look, I really have no idea what you're saying, I'm sorry, ok?" as I retreat into my room

All the while she glares at me like I am some sort of cyclops with a lisp singing the national anthem. But the funny thing is she has this half-smile on her face the whole time, yet I can see the judgement and hatred in her eyes. So as I slink into my room backwards (never turn your back on the enemy) she shakes her head in disgust while still smiling, her one gold-rimmed tooth catching the light somehow because it's super dim, not sure, must be some good gold they have here. I thought that speaking louder and slower when someone doesn't understand you was an inherently American thing. Apparently not-as the more I speak in English and shake my head the slower and louder she gets.

The worst was when I was really sick about two weeks ago. She chose the day I thought I was dying to berate me about leaving the air-conditioner in my room on. Again, like a dumb foreigner, I forgot to turn off my AC that basically is only a fan in between my trips to the bathroom. She scolded me in a long soliloquy and all I understood was "AC" and hand gestures and her half-disgust smile so I thought that probably was a bad thing. "Sorry..." I croaked as I clutched my stomach and ran to my room.

The next day I was fortunate enough to be leaving smog central to travel to Yogyakarta, the "cultural center" of Java (read: tourist destination and hotels with pools). Even if I was sick, I was getting the hell out of Jakarta and the hot windowless room and the maid who may or may not have poisoned me (or at the very least cast a curse on me). I couldn't figure out the cause of my sudden stomach ailment, of course you always go through the list of everything you ate...but I had eaten dinner at my friends house the night before, and none of them were sick...and no street food that day. My friend offered her opinion: "I bet it was the chili. You did eat a lot of chili." Considering I had a fever and explosive diarrhea, I don't think it was reflux due to the "chileee" as it is pronounced here. Indonesians love their chili-they have these little red and green ones that are super hot, and you can eat them whole or ground-up in a paste. I usually dab a little on whatever I eat, and that always earns a patronizing remark from whomever I am eating with: "OOoooo, are you sure you can handle the chili? It's really hot!" Indonesians are proud about a lot of things, but their food and it's spiciness is at the top of the list. "Yeah, I know. We do have spicy food in America, you know." "Yes, but Indonesian food is REALLY spicy. Be careful!" "Ok, thanks for the warning!" as I bite down cheerfully. This has backfired a few times as I have gotten an uber-spicy one that leaves me gasping for air and gulping water without ice :( but usually I can handle my own.

Two days after the dinner and the day after the abdominal misery set in, I had to go back by my friends house to print something. She was not there, but her husband was. He's kind of like the Indonesian version of Kip from Napoleon Dynamite. He gave me a look of pity as I plopped on his couch. "How are you feeeeeeling?" (I wish I coudl do better with the accent, but only can do so much with a keyboard).

"I'm ok, thanks."

"What happened?"

"Just got sick, I really am feeling better though, thank you."

"You know, I bet it was the chileeee. You really shouldn't eat the chileeee if you can't handle it." He stared at me with his little bald head and pencil moustache and 1980s square-rimmed glasses.

He was totally mocking me!

"No, I don't think it was the chili, actually."

"No, I bet it was. You ate too much. You should be more careful from now on."

It wasn't the F*ing chili!!! I wanted to scream, more annoyed than I should have been which I am going to blame on the fact that my abdomen felt like someone had tried to stuff two basketballs into it combined with caffeine-withdrawal headaches from lack of coffee. I would have taken on that battle about whether or not I could handle my chileees but I needed his printer and wanted to save my energy for making it to my flight so I could get the hell out of here, so I just shrugged my shoulders.

Yogya recharged my batteries, though, and I did avoid the chilis for awhile. When I got back to the city today I considered asking him out to lunch so I could prove my chileee-worthiness, but instead I just settled for eating alone in a warung down the street. Sometimes you have to face your demons head on-so I picked the items with the most red and seedy sauce I could find with minimal rice to damper down the taste and sat down to eat. Halfway through the meal I stopped to wipe off my forehead, but I finished all of it! I wondered if taking Zantac would be considered cheating, but decided no that was just smart, so I popped two and headed back out into the frantic Jakarta streets.

Someone once said that "true integrity is doing the right thing, even when no one is looking." I think this same point can be said for proving something to yourself without anyone there to watch.

Especially if it's handling your chileeees.

Are we really all interested in "traveling"?

I saw more white people on my first day in Jogjakarta then I have during my entire 6 weeks in Indonesia. It hit me as I was shoving my way through the crowd on Jalan Malioboro that I was back among the land of tourists; no longer was I the only bule who garnered the "Hello Mister!" attention from shop owners, the requests for photo opps with school kids, and the attempts at broken English that I have grown to love. No, here I was just another tourist. Sigh.

Today it was hot and sunny, and then it rained. I wonder if my fishermen at the lake are feeling sick. Many of the men I interviewed for my thesis attributed their illnesses to changes in weather, especially a rapid change in hot to cold weather. So when I got back to my hotel and immediately jumped in the pool; I was oh so grateful for the clean cool water as I sliced through it...as a Pisces, water is my second home. I didn't even think the muddy rivers I had left behind in Kalimantan as I savored a moment of quiet and bliss that is rare in Java; one of the most crowded islands on earth.

Later as I ate at a renowned backpacker restaurant two doors down from my very nice (but still cheap!) hotel I looked around at all of the other bule as we drank our icy Bintangs and ate organic rice and sauces without MSG--most are definitely European, this place seems to be popular with the French, Danish, and Germans. A few travelers from Argentina and one brave lady from Mexico have also crossed my path, along with a few Aussies and Kiwis. Yet still no Americanos, but I'm sure that won't last long. This restaurant was opened by some Belgian dudes who wanted to create organic sustainable restaurants that benefit the local community...but I couldn't help but wonder how exactly this uber-trendy and doubly expensive restaurant helps benefit the local economy more than what I could buy directly from the local street vendor a few blocks away?

My mind started wandering as it often does, and I wondered...why do most people like to travel? Does everyone like to travel, or it has become something to occupy the spare time of the affluent? Maybe...but then there are the budget travelers, the young hip students who want to show off how cultured and awesome we are. It has become a bragging right, in certain circles; how about this for a mad lib: "Dude, how many (girls have you banged/countries have you traveled to this year)?" "Aw man, its been kind of a dry spell lately. Only two this year, and could only spend about a week in each one. But next year, gonna take a whole month off, hit up Europe, the Mediterranean, maybe Central Asia? It's gonna be epic." 

To travel, according to my favorite online dictionary, means to take a trip, go from one destination to the next, usually abroad. Benign enough. Exciting even. 

Yet, the etymology of the word travel is the Middle English word travail; meaning a work especially of a painful or laborious nature, a physical or mental exertion or piece of work, excessive labor, suffering. If you go even deeper, it is rooted from the Latin word, tripalium, which is a 3-staked instrument of torture. Go ahead, google away. So how did we go from this--->

         to this?

I wonder if the Incas were jumping for joy after they finished hauling

 all those rocks up that freaking mountain

Hmmm. Still like traveling? Yeah, me neither. 

But I wonder-what does traveling mean for most people? Seeing beautiful monuments, meeting new people, going on exciting adventures in exotic places, experiencing new cultures? Yes, all true...but I also feel that a love of "traveling" has become the Y generation's version of "keeping up with the Joneses" as we all try to outdo one another with our stories and experiences. 

A few sample conversations inspired by true events: 

"Oh, when did you last go to Chile? Aren't the people there wonderful? Yeah, I was a nanny there for a year before backpacking across Patagonia and becoming the youngest person to summit Aconcagua..."

"Yeah, I've had malaria SIX times...."

"Well lets see, I speak French, English, German, Italian, and am teaching Spanish this summer to some refugee kids from Sudan.."

"Oh wow, you've been to 10 countries? Gosh, I've lost track of all mine...I think I've been to at least 30...Oooops-I forgot Africa! So it must be closer to 40. Still a long ways to go!"

And as a member of the Global Health crowd, I can say we are perhaps the worst at this...although we like to legitimize our travel by calling it "work" (tongue-in-cheek; we actually do work really hard at helping people around the world; I just think we are very guilty of all that I have named above!)

And how much local culture do we experience? Or is it more bringing our culture with us, to these beautiful spots where we want to see these once-in-a-lifetime things (but with a/c and wifi please). As for Indonesia, Jogja is nice, Bali is even nicer, but Jakarta and Kalimantan can be hot and miserable places at times, and life is not easy for many people who live there. I don't think most of us travelers would want to stay much longer than a few days here if we had to live like the average Indonesian...

When I think of a true travailler, I think of my friend Janelle, who lived for 2 years in the Moroccan desert while in Peace Corps. Yikes. Or two of my professional mentors, who were medical missionaries for 20 years in Bangladesh (well, maybe that is more of "huge life change" than traveling. scratch that example.) 

Would we all be so excited about traveling if we had to go about it as our forefathers did? Spending weeks or months at sea getting scurvy, days on foot, carrying heavy packs, not talking to our family for months, and even then only a measly letter? I can honestly say that 16 hours by motor vehicle on bumpy dirt roads, explosive diarrhea, and sleeping on mattresses that may or may not be infested with fleas is not my idea of fun. So is it worth it when I get to see my first orangutan in the wild or get a sweet pic of that temple at sunrise? Yeah after the fact (just make sure to ask after the flea bites have worn off). Or like childbearing, you forget the pain after awhile and only remember the good parts.

Modern technology has made our lives so much easier, that now many people can afford to travel to all the cool places that God gave us on this globe, and that is not a bad thing. But traveling, in my opinion, has now taken on the opposite meaning of travail. Those of us well-off enough to afford that round-trip ticket to Bangkok can live like kings on a few USD a day, but this option is still limited to those of us with both money and power. Not necessarily personal power; but country-level power. Those of us lucky enough to reside in Western countries have a pretty sweet bargain as we are able to gain access to most countries without much hassle or expense. Yet, how easy is it for a Bolivian or Libyan to get a visa to visit the U.S.?  Not very. When I was conducting my interviews in Kalimantan, so many people would tell me how they wanted to visit the U.S. someday, and ask me how much it cost to get there. I didn't have the heart to tell them it would be like me trying to save up enough money to buy a Gulfstream G4. 

The Malay and Dayak of West Kalimantan are some of the most hard-working people I have ever seen in my life; sun up to sun down they toil away in the heat; fishing, weaving, laundry, crops, cooking, cleaning...they live pretty well, by Indonesian standards, although still perhaps monetarily poor they always have enough food, nice houses, some have TVs. Experiencing their life for just a few weeks was really rough for me; more than once I was extremely homesick and longed for the cold wind in my face as I ride my bike down the Embarcadero. They are the ones who travail, and I was the one who traveled; yet they were the ones who were content, and I was the one in agony (well, only sometimes-there were of course high points). How did these two words, rooted in one another, come to mean such opposite things? Somewhere in the midst of Lonely Planet, online forums, cheapflights.com, and digital photography, traveling became a passion, a desire, a fad...someday I want to go somewhere without a guidebook, without a plan or camera, without knowing the language or even anything about the place, and see how I handle things. I sort of tried to do that here, but bought a language book the second I found a bookstore and even though I am sans Lonely Planet, the Thorn Tree forum has provided many recommendations last-minute.

As I sit here typing away on my MacBook enjoying my coffee and the sound of the waterfall splashing into the pool; I look around to see if there is anything even remotely Indonesian around me, and the only thing I spot is the disgusting kerupuk sitting untouched by the bule guests in a glass jar on the extravagant buffet table. 

Do I still like traveling? Sure, kind of. But what I enjoy more is learning, seeing, doing. And how many things have I left undone in my home state of Georgia, or in the U.S. in general? Plenty. At last count I have only visited 18 out of 50 states! Do I like traveling at the expense of missing out on important events, like my best friends graduating from medical school or Bay to Breakers?

Today I was going to go see some more temples outside of Jogja. But I decided I needed a break from traveling. So I will sit, and rest, and work on my presentation I have to give in two days that has been sadly neglected, because of, well, traveling. I have loved my time in Indonesia, but I will be more than happy to unpack my suitcase, grab a cold pint in the Mission, and gossip with my friends about our love lives. So to all of you travelers out there-I propose a challenge; next time you visit Fiji or Tanzania, take a few days away from the fun stuff and try to see the place for what it really is--visit a local hospital or go work in the rice paddies for a day in the full sun and humidity...And try to do it without complaining, without sadness or pity, just as a normal person that lives like this, day after day, and is content with it, happy even.

I think, if you do this, you will fail, like I did. You will be hot and whiny...you will feel slight pity for the barefoot children playing in the dirt, happy as they are, because you know they will probably never go to college or be able to see the things you have been lucky enough to see. But later, when you are removed from the situation, safe in the comfort of familiarity and native speakers, you might realize how vast and complex our world is and how little you actually know after so many years of graduate school. You might also appreciate the difficulties faced, if not at the time, for how they forced you to adapt, how they exposed your true colors and motives that normally you can hide. You might learn a thing or two about how to combat loneliness, when you don't have facebook or text messages as a fallback. And you hope that these lessons aren't akin to your biochemistry course, which you immediately erased from your memory as soon as the course was over. And maybe, like me, you will gain a new appreciation for what it means to call a place "home".

And you might realize that you do love traveling...just not for the reasons you originally thought.

I'm baaaaccckkkkkk!!!!

I'm not really sure the impetus for reinvigorating my blog...perhaps being trapped in a windowless steamy room in the most polluted city on earth while nursing a fever and nausea does weird things to your mind. What do I know, I'm only 3/4 doctor.

Being nauseated sucks. so does itching. And of course Indonesia doesn't sell Phenergan, the best anti-nausea so you can sleep 15 hours straight medicine EVER. So I will rely on these weird stick on heating pads, tylenol, and some sort of cramping medicine to relieve my agony. Doctors are huge babies by the way-because we think of all the possible things that could be wrong with us every time we get sick (My differential includes: SBO, gastritis, ruptured ovarian cyst, the worst PMS ever, shigella, salmonella, rotavirus, and too many others to list...ignorance really is bliss.)

Maybe I'm just lonely....it is way too early to call my amigos, although I was really tempted. Who wouldn't want a wake-up call at 3 am on a weekday from your best friend who wants to whine about her tummy hurting? But for some reason, think this might be one of those put your big girl panties on times.

The one good thing about being sick? Other people taking care of you. I'm totally a sucker for service. I love breakfast in bed, and as a shrewd kindergartner I quickly learned that I could train my mother to serve me Lucky Charms on my favorite My Little Ponies tray in front of the TV as an enticement to actually get out of bed for school. 22 years later, this like, doesn't happen anymore. (Unless I happen to be home on my birthday or christmas. Chocolate Eclair and Coffee? Yes please!)

BUT...one time I can still get my pampering is when I'm sick. One time in med school I was so sick that I literally passed out on my bathroom floor and could not get up the next day because I was so dehydrated. My dear father figure friend Patrick brought me blue gatorade and revived me back to life. Or at least back to bed. That's the first thing you learn as a med student. Gatorade for hangovers, and avoid Mexican food at all costs. So what if I was sick from vodka and not a virus? Same same.

Unfortunately this little bug ain't from alcohol. However, I did still get some care today from a friend I have known about 1 month. My friend Agnes checked on me all day between her work and meetings, took me to the Apotik (pharmacy), brought me warm rice, offered to massage my back, and gave lots of motherly looks of pity. Almost felt like home. And then I looked out the window of our car and realized I was still stuck in the Jakarta smog. I have a love-hate relationship with Indonesia, but I will say that these are among the most generous, welcome people I have ever encountered. Even though most people here won't hesitate to burp in public and shove you out of the way when waiting in line, they will be the first to invite you into their home, feed you 5-course meals, and do anything in their power to anticipate any possible need of their beloved "guest."

Being from the South, we are known for our hospitality. Yet this is an area I am totally lacking in....traveling alone here and barely speaking the language has made me realize the power in kindness to strangers, especially those who are clearly fish out of water, as I have been here for the last month. 

But I think I've come to the conclusion that I would be a lot more hospitable if my house was ever clean (it is, like 15.7% of the time). Do maids count as pampering?