A long blog, wherein the author sulks in a pool and cries in Jakarta
I couldn’t really bear to write a closing blog before leaving Bali because it would mean admitting the finality of the trip, which I knew would be obvious once the plane took off. So instead, I spent my last morning reading by the pool, enjoying a massage and then finally being taken away to the airport.
I spent my last night on the island in the sleepy beach town of Sanur, hoping to have some quality beach time after weeks near the rice plateaus. I must admit I was sorely dissapointed, realizing I was in a rather tourist trap sort of town with not that pretty of a beach and very expensive, well, everything (compared to Ubud, that is). Everywhere I went people tried to talk me into buying things and I quickly missed the sweet curiousity of all the people I spoke with in Ubud. I realized that there were couples just about everywhere. After seeing the kagillionth couple sauntering down the street holding hands while I sat and read a book, I just about crumpled into myself, missing my husband more than I really thought I could ever miss a person. I’m accustomed to traveling and going on adventures, it has always felt like a big part of who I am. But I really would rather go on these adventures with him. Plain and simple. And I am really, really grateful that he was so gracious and caring that he completely supported me wanting to run off for several weeks to a beautiful place to study yoga. But still, I miss him and I hope my teacher was right when I received my teaching certificate and he commented "Quyen will be proud, won’t he?"
Anyway, I tried to make the most of Sanur by taking care of last minute things and enjoying a nice walk around the beach as well as time by the pool. But then I got into a late night funk, swimming in the pool while the hotel was quiet, all the Europeans presumably off for their late dinners. While lapping around in the beautiful pool, I frowned thinking about how lonely it felt and realizing that all the sounds of life I heard in the rice fields every night seemed to lessen the blow of not having my sweet little family around me. I remembered Q and I swimming in the pool at night on our recent trip to the Dominican Republic- how we’d dodge bats and then the oafish rottweiler that lived in the B&B compound ran up to Quyen, licking water off his shoulders. (Thank goodness for that dog, who softened Q enough to finally allow us to get a dog and now we have our part Rotty, Sasha!).
Anyway, during my wet sulk in the pool, a little voice spoke up to me in my little head and said "You’re in paradise and you’re sulking?! Get over it!" and I felt like a lightened up a bit, remembering that our thoughts make us who we are: happy, sad, irritable, lonely, whatever. Then I awoke in a similar somber mood, feeling sad I wouldn’t walk through the fields to practice yoga with everyone like usual. So I just laid the mat out on the sterile hotel floor and did it myself and it all came back, just like that. The feelings of peace, of it is going to be alright, of I can just be where I am doing what I do, wherever and whatever that is. That’s the gift of yoga. So the purpose of practice is not simply to feel good, stay in shape or prevent injuries, although those are all nice too. Rather, the reason is to LIVE PRESENTLY and to be equipped to respond, rather than react, to the world as it is.
During some of the meditations on our retreat, my teachers would say things to prepare us for the idea of coming home. It almost seemed unnecessary for me to be preparing, since my trip was short and it was 2 months of longer for other students. However, I adjusted quickly and still reaped benefits from 2 weeks in a retreat environment and in a beautiful town where prana and sweetness emanates from, well, just about everywhere and everyone. Part of the retreat environment is just being more open and vulnerable, which can make it hard to transition back to the "real world", where there’s an inevitable struggle between wanting to hold onto that openness but then realizing it might make things a bit harder, perhaps causing a return to those old and unhelpful habit. So you teeter-totter between wanting to get through your day to day life without looking like a wussy but also not wanting to let go of the beautiful insights that came forth. Its tough, and I remember it being tough even after short retreats.
I decided Sanur was a smart-ish idea because it got me away from those amazingly mesmerizing rice fields, where sometimes there are bright lightning bugs at night and the sounds lull you to sleep. I needed a step down from that magic to get me ready for 2 days of travel and then my return to the US, where I’ll be back in the big city and back to my responsibilities. So Sanur was kind of sterile and a bit dull, which was likely what I needed. I saw the sun set on the ocean as I boarded the plane to leave Bali and felt wistful as the plane left the island to fly towards Jakarta, my first stop. I’ll be back on Bali, of this I am sure.
My stop in Jakarta seemed simple. A few hours wait and then I’d board a flight to Seoul, then a 12 hour layover and then my 10 hour flight back home to Seattle (you know it sucks when your layover is longer than your flight!). But Jakarta, instead, was massively confusing. I was pointed in many different directions and any formal stop I had to make to show my paperwork revealed that I didn’t have the paperwork I needed or what I did have was confusing. Ultimately, I figured out that there were two confusing things at play: 1. I already did all my immigration stuff to leave Indonesia while in Denpasar, Bali as I was directed to there and 2. I was only trasnsferring to another flight in Jakarta, while many assumed I was here to stay.
Now I must admit that I am pretty airport savvy. By golly, I should be at this point. I travel well and have been in airports my whole life, from those frequent trips from Texas to Minnesota as a kid and then when I packed off to Europe for a year in high school, then to Central America, then two years in Africa, then little trips here and there and frequent domestic trips to see friends and family all the time as well. Indonesia marked the 26th foreign country I’ve visited. I like traveling, to be sure (and living abroad, which I’m itching to do again). So, I read the signs of where to go and walked in the direction as I saw fit. At one point, I tried to walk through a doorway leading me to the Non-Garuda Indonesia flight transfers and a guy told me "No" and pointed in the direction I came from. I explained that I didn’t have a transfer on Garuda Indonesia, that I was going to Korea. He didn’t allow me to pass and turned me around the other way. I then wandered and asked questions and was eventually told I had to go through customs and actually leave the airport and then go upstairs to check in with Korean air. (By the way, I love how I flew on Garuda Indonesia… one of my favorite yoga poses is Garudasana!).
At customs they were all about my declaration papers, which I don’t have because I’m not spending any time in Jakarta and all I wanna do is get on my flight to Korea and eat my bee bim bop, man! I explained that, not in so many words, to about 5 people and they let me through but only after searching my bag. I exit the airport, to feel sticky, stifling heat and find an explosion of people, all yelling and asking me if I need transport to here and "where are you going?.. hello miss!… and so on" and I just wanted to yell BEE BIM BOP! but I did not and simply found some stairs, remembering to breathe and let’s not be the ugly American who goes and studies peaceful yoga for 2 weeks and then leaves Bali and gets all red faced and hysterically angry about, well, basically nothing. I re-enter the airport upstairs, go through baggage checks again and then to the Korean air check in counter. By the way, my backpack is really heavy.
Now they were just thoroughly confused by things at the Korean air counter. The young man working looked totally overwhelmed and possibly terrified and called some tall and official person over to assist, presumably his Boss Man. They frowned at all my paperwork and asked about some form I don’t have. I then explained that I just flew in from Bali. After frowing over all aspects of my paperwork for about 10 minutes, the Boss Man tells me that I could have just walked through the airport to the non-Garuda trasnfer area where someone would have walked me though immigration and I could have just checked in at the gate. So basically, if I’d been allowed to walk where I wanted to walk then maybe I would have ended up where I needed to be? (I think). I sighed and said "They told me to leave the airport and come upstairs through here". And at this point, my lower lip starts to quiver and yes, my little open heart just starts to shiver and quiver and, yep, I cry as I stutter and say "this has been really confusing!" and then I miss Q all over again. The two men look scared and surprised, they shake their sheads and make comments about "blah blah blah immigration" and things like that, so I’m assuming they were annoyed on my behalf, which was sweet. I recalled that Indonesia is a Muslim land, save for the Hindu island of Bali, and remembered in the Gambia how people would get so irritated when I’d cry there, remembering my friend F-girl whisking me away from her mother’s funeral ceremony and ordering me to "wash those tears! Stop this!". It was an odd thing, but something I came to understand as a feeling that tears were stifling and desperate, they didn’t help anyone and in the situation of a funeral, they only slowed down the loved one’s soul on their journey to their rightful place. It made sense in a place like The Gambia, where maybe if you start crying about your losses you might not stop. Incidentally, we say that at work about all the tragedies we bear witness too- "hey might as well laugh because if I start crying I’ll never stop." Well such memories didn’t help me feel better, as I confusedly wondered if in Indonesia they view tears in a similar fashion? Or was it a more African belief in the Gambia? hmmm. confusing. One of my teachers often says there are "extra points for fluids" in yoga, meaning if you cough, cry, puke, whatever, you’re doing what your body and soul need at the time and it is all just a-ok. So I guess I was getting some extra points there for my tears and sniveling.
Sigh. So those 2 men were very helpful and Boss Man had the young man, who looked terrified and wouldn’t look at me straight on, walk me though immigration. By then the waterworks had stopped, thankfully. I’m all about being a peaceful warrior but at some point, it is just embarrassing. Boss Man did a great job printing out all the things I’d need to get me right to Seattle. He informed me that the Terrified Young Man (he didn’t call him that, of course) would be walking me through immigration and if the Boss Man could have sent Q a text message telling him that all is well and then warmed some water in the kettle for my impending return, well then I’m sure he would have. He was right on, because each official check point only led to more uniformed people somehow dumbfounded by my paperwork, but Terrified Young Man explained everything, even going into a back office at one point to talk to some official person who also came out to lift up the little velvet rope so I could walk through with my big heavy backpack, my little sunburn and all my bug bites. They all smiled, which reassured me and I made it to my gate without incident.
See, a few tears aren’t so bad, right?
Powered by Qumana


























