There's one for yes, continue this, there's one for yes, continue this, and there's one for write about other people at a brand-new location God-knows-where, so I think I'm going to continue this, though maybe with interludes about other people such as this one:

No, actually, I haven't seen any other people for awhile. Chicago is big and cold and lonely. There's just something about a climate that prohibits sitting out on the lawn that makes people seem rude. They rush past you to get to their warm car, and who can blame them? but it still stands that they rush past you.

There's something about the sky being darker than the ground. Snow and a constantly threatening storm. I rush past people, too. I rush past them to get to Potbelly Sandwich Works, which, in my opinion, is a better destination than a warm car (even). I want everything on mine. The sub guys on the line behind the counter smile like they're welcoming you to their home, like they're inviting you to come sit by the fire and eat their homemade rabbit stew. If there's one thing I'll miss when I leave here again, it's the pride Chicagoans have in their food, and the concurrent fact, somehow, that they sell it for cheap. Maybe they feel guilty charging their honored guests. Who knows?

Okay, I was in Victoria's Secret, and I was there for two reasons: one, to buy a bra, and two, to give myself the most massive amount of culture shock possible all at once. The windows reared in front of me like giant horses with posters taped to their bellies, posters of stretched out women showing me ALL of their skin and tiny, wavy, shiny triangles of material in bright orange, bright pink, bright, bright, and the eyeshadow and their legs that were taller than me and curled around other women's legs that were also taller and me and I thought... how is this legal?

I didn't think this because I think it shouldn't be - legal, I mean - but because I've spent so long being the sluttiest person in Jayapura just by occasionally wearing V-neck T-shirts, and I'm so used to looking down at myself every 20 seconds to make sure that no part of my armpit is showing, because that would be provocative...

A girl next to me holding an armful of lacy, flowery bras started talking to me about how she wanted to buy ten of them, but... 'all of them seem to show up under my clothes! Look at the butterflies. The butterflies are definitely going to be popping out under something white. And under black? Do you think this lace beige pattern's going to come out under black?'

'I think so, I mean, look at it,' I said on complete autopilot, because nobody in Indonesia would ever talk about their bras showing under their clothes, or wear something that might threaten to be thin enough to show a bra. It occurred to me right about then that I don't remember how women are supposed to talk to each other, and it occurred to me stronger later when an employee insisted upon measuring me before I bought anything, at which point I fled in terror. I think I need more time.

My fingers squish in the avocado, over the cream cheese, under the lox. I stare at what I'm holding because I can't believe that it's actually there. 'Crusty bread' was the number one food named among my Western coworkers in Indonesia as the food they missed most. Does a toasted garlic and onion bagel count?

Yes.

I think about a flooding Makassar and its rice field puzzle pieces overflowing into each other. When I see something beautiful I stare, entranced, while the back of my mind throbs something dull about a camera. Nobody will ever see the most beautiful sights I've seen because I have never taken a picture when I'm thoroughly spellbound. Maybe, in someone's worldview somewhere, that's good. I guess it is in mine.

What should I be in my free time, a writer or a musician? My perenially cheesy lyrics point me back to writing, even though I'm never happier than when I sing, but then I realize I have way, way too much to write about, and way, way too much of it is about me, me, me, and I am bored with me.
Should I continue this blog even though I am no longer anywhere exotic, and it may be in danger of becoming an 'what i ate today omg lol' blog? Or should I retreat back to my old high school haunt, http://singingcamel.diaryland.com, even though, shit, I cringe every time I hit the random button and see what kind of absolute word-vomit came out of the tips of my fingers in high school, and even college? Take a vote in the comments. Please. I need guidance.

And. I'm home... and. I'm home, and I'm. Home, and I'm home. That sounds like a Bright Eyes song title. It isn't. I wish it were. Then I could listen to it, and maybe it would shake my experiences out of my ears, like water, and maybe the droplets would land in a line and then I could write about them. But my timeline is all jumbled. Six plane flights in the mist. Six.

The 747's wings are flapping like a bird's, 10 meters up, 10 meters down, and sideways, and the purple starred seats in the cabin pipe shakuhachi music from the speakers in the armrests and five effeminate Singaporeans are saying, in turn, 'Ma'am, would you like lamb chops and mashed potatoes or Chinese stir-fry?' and 'Please be careful with that hot tea, it is a bit turbulent outside', which is an understatement since we are flying through a lightning storm. This is one of a series of storms that has flooded Jakarta, but the Singaporeans are still pouring hot tea, and displaying images of lotus flowers on the seatback videoscreens. Their hands, holding the teapots, stay remarkably steady as the floor tosses their feet. I am too dumbfounded to be terrified. I am too enamored with the lamb chops, anyway.

In Hong Kong a Chinese man is screaming at people boarding the plane to get into two lanes, in English, but in such terribly accented English that nobody understands him. In response, he screams louder. If this was America he could just deny them entry onto the plane for 'security reasons'. It isn't America. He screams louder and louder until flecks of spit fly out of his mouth, and he stomps off in a rage to join the other men who are hand-searching carry-on luggage with rubber gloves. One of them unscrews my body lotion. "What this?" he asks me. "Body lotion?" I ask him, meaning can I take it? but he has already made a face and handed it back. He misses the jeruk manis in the bottom. I am (accidentally) crafty. I also smuggled in some nata de coco. I am going to get preserved coconut disease culture ALL OVER AMERICA, HAHAHAHA. Did you know, they ask you that on customs arrival cards? Like so:

Are you or any member of your family planning to bring into the U.S.A. any of the following items: fruit, vegetables, plants, disease cultures, pests, or snails? Yes/No

Disease cultures? Snails? I sit with my pen hovering over 'Yes' for a good two minutes, but then decide that my desire to be able to have a nice conversation in English for the first time with an immigration official ("Why? Well... I just, like, thought it would make a nice souvenir for my boyfriend, this snail smeared with bird flu culture... don't you think?") doesn't override my desire to not go to jail. Then, later, it doesn't matter, because I get my first desire anyway:

"What's 'PNG'? Punnngggg? Where's that?"
"Pee Enn Jee."
"Punngggg?"
"No, Papua New Guinea."
"Where's that?"
"....." (But... you're an immigration official!)
"Well?"
"It's... on the island of Papua, near, like Australia... and..."
"Oh, Australia... well, Australia's OK. Next!"

and later, at the bank:

"Do you guys change Swiss Francs?"
"Do we change whatsawhoozees?"
"Swiss Francs."
"What?"
"Swiss. Francs."
"Where they from?"
"Switzerland. Switzerland. Francs."
"Oh. Okay... WHAT they called?"
"Swiss Francs."
"Okay... I think I see em, but... this gotta be wrong, 'cuz it say it trading at about 150,000 of 'em to the dolla... oh no, wait, awright. Okay. No. This gotta be wrong. Now it say it give you $150 for your 200 switch francs."
"Yeah. That's what it's trading at. That's right."
"You say Switch Francs?"
"Um.... yes."
"Okay, here you go."

I'll finish later. I'm too tired to move my frozen fingers.

This is the last post in which I will be newly, or at least, relatively newly, Indonesian. Maybe I’ll be able to send a lack-of-sleep-addled update from Hong Kong. Maybe I’ll have just finished careening with the tip of my plane wing over a blown-up volcanic island full of skyscrapers. Maybe. I’ve heard that, in Hong Kong, this is how it happens. 28 hours of flying, but this time, alone. I’ll have to climb over two strangers to use the bathroom instead of one stranger and a rather less obliging Nick. We’re separating, but most of you already know this.

I leave the Hong Kong airport on Tuesday, 11:36 a.m. I get into Chicago O’Hare on Tuesday, 11:45 a.m. My flight takes nine minutes. I will see the sun streak at double speed overhead, as opposed to landing in Taipei, when we chased it, and it took hours to rise. Literally hours.

Goodbye:
riding on the left front side of cars without driving
spatters of red spit everywhere from betel-nut-chewers, looking like people have been slaughtering cows in the road
the immediate threat of bird flu
filthy, beautiful, distanced presence of the ocean
11-year-old students who have crushes on me
being called 'mister'
MSG in everything
14 dollar blocks of Kraft-quality cheese
grumpy photocopy ladies
driving a motorcycle at what feels like 80 miles an hour, but is actually only about 30
random requests for money for everything from sitting on a hill to picking up a letter at the post office
taxis with pictures of Britney Spears on the seats
people who can't comprehend not having a religion
strangers nervously whispering 'good evening' to me at 10 a.m.
red rambutan, yellow rambutan, brown rambutan, green rambutan, and the man who sells it
having absurd roleplays with supremely religious students in which they have to pretend to be cheating on their wife/husband
students saying 'God damn it' and, when questioned, explaining that in English this is a more polite way of saying 'oh no'
mango trees

I forgot to mention here that I would be travelling to Wamena for a few days, my last destination in Indonesia aside from the brief layover at Soekarno-Hatta, Jakarta, next Monday. Anyway, that’s where I’ve been.

Wamena is inland about a half-hour propeller-plane ride from Jayapura, pretty much exactly in the center of Papua. My Indonesian-made world map lists its elevation at 4000 meters, but that converts to about 13,000 feet and I doubt its accuracy, given that I had no trouble breathing and the same map also shows Chicago south of Denver and India as a tiny, barely detectable peninsula. In any case, it’s high enough to be cold – actually cold, not fake 85 degree rainy cold – and I slept curled in a down sleeping bag on the dark cement floor of Louise’s room. Nick sweated inches away under a sheet. Periodically, all the dogs in town would break out into frantic barking, and cease seconds later. I tried my best never to have to use the bathroom, because the water tank was filled with cold-hardened mosquitos; not the wimpy langorous ones by the sea, but ones who guarded the water tank like killer bees. When I woke up in the morning, it was always to clouds, hanging low enough, literally, to stretch up and touch. Rickshaws creaked up and down the street. In Jayapura, it’s ‘Mister, mister!’ we get yelled at us whenever we go anywhere. In Wamena, it was ‘Bye-bye! Bye-bye!’ Bye-bye as a greeting.

Since Wamena is so small, it hasn’t stamped out the surrounding tribal culture (and because of this, it’s considered a ‘dangerous area for tourists’ and we had to jump through hoops to get permission to go there). In the market, which looks exactly the same as in any other Papuan city, with everyone dressed in imported T-shirts and mid-length shorts, there are occasional naked old men wearing only kotekas. (A koteka is a horn-shaped wooden penis-covering held up with string around the waist.) Our last day there, Nick and I rounded a corner right in the center of town looking for somewhere to eat when one appeared out of nowhere and insisted upon giving each of us a hug. Then, after sitting patiently outside a food stall waiting for us to finish our milk tea and fish, he made urgent puffing motions with his mouth and then drew pictures of cigarettes all over his arms with a piece of sharp wood. We felt sort of morally wrong about buying cigarettes for an 80 year old tribesman in a koteka, so we caught the next rickshaw home. (We saw him again at the airport, where he tried to make me give him my sweater.)

We went to Louise’s boyfriend’s village, which involved climbing over the airport fence, crossing a hanging bridge over a wide, crocodile-filled muddy river, squelching knee-deep through some pigs’ muddy roaming ground, and stopping in at a cave in the mountains with pitfalls everywhere and an opening into a great yellow lake with about seventeen villagers fishing, but with no fish yet caught. Some children begged to have their picture taken with me. As the shutter clicked, they stood scowling fiercely. They thought it made them look cool. When they saw themselves in the tiny window of my camera screen, they screeched with embarrassment and laughter. Going back, an old man in a koteka careened to a halt in front of us, looking delighted. ‘Waa! Waa! Waa! Waa! Waa! Waa!’ he shouted rhythmically over and over as he took our hands. I asked later: it means hello.

Back in town, we were leaving the internet café and noticed that it had started to rain. We were wondering aloud where we might find some food when a Japanese man appeared and asked ‘Do you want a pancake?’ We thought we had misheard him, or misseen him, or both (there are no pancakes in Indonesia; also, no Japanese people) but followed him into this bizarre hidden apartment behind the internet cafe, where we found two cute young Dutch guys cooking cheesy pancakes with strawberry jam and chocolate sprinkles. This was a giant culture shock, but it didn’t stop us from stuffing our faces and cautiously speaking English to the first strangers we’d met all year who could speak it (and perfectly: very European of them). They had just finished getting very sick in the jungle.

That’s it, really. There was an electric keyboard, guitar, bass, and drums at the church down the street, and we jammed with a bunch of church kids, but it turned out awkward because they only knew songs about praising Jesus, and we only knew... well, everything but that. And then Nick had to say a prayer at the end, which only Louise and I knew he invented on the spot, and only Louise and I almost wet our pants from the strain of holding in our laughter – not because the prayer was funny, or that praising God in general is funny, but because nonreligious Nick praising God to a roomful of Indonesians who think all bules are Christian, in central Papua, where nobody understood a word of his prayer, yet bowed their heads solemnly if a little awkwardly, was extremely funny. In an absurd way.