Indonesia by the numbers:

months in Indonesia: 9

grains of rice eaten: 720,000

students taught: 400

books read: 73

weddings attended: 8

islands visited: 11

dives logged: 10

mountains summitted: 2

  volcanoes fallen into: 0

encounters with wild primates: 4

An Ode to My Coffee Mug

O! Coffee mug
You are my long true friend
You wake me up
You keep me warm

For eight long years,
We've been together
Through early morning calculus
And late night art studios

You've roadtripped 'cross the country
Topped with gas station brew
The perfect pairing
With sunchips and M&Ms

We hiked together
Long miles through snowy mountains
And you gave me a reason
To leave students unchaperoned at showers

You've traveled round the world
By boat, by plane
Through deserts, between rice paddies, across rivers
Never spilling a drop of precious coffee

Work would be impossible
Without your comforts
My hands shake in your absence
I am sad when you are empty

Now I fear that you are aging
Metal dented, bright paint peeling
But you still warm my drinks
You will always wake me up


Three Haikus (About my Coffee Mug)

My hand's perfect fit
a safety, vacuum seal lid
hot coffee won't spill

Black lid, red body
ever a coffee mug, you
change the taste of tea

I've rarely washed you
intensifying flavor
perhaps not my health

*All of this was written during Monday's morning meeting. Today, learning about the exciting topic of Indonesian income tax regulations.

With about three more weeks of living in Indonesia, I'm finding myself thinking a lot about this experience. I am already nostalgic for something that is still happening. Yet, I also find myself perplexed, because I don't exactly know what is happening, or more to the point, what I have done.

We had our final official conference as a group of ETAs a few weeks ago. It left me wondering what I've achieved by living in Samarinda for nine months. The most obvious answer is: not much. When I think about my experience, the highlights that immediately come to mind are scuba diving with manta rays, visions of perfectly green rice paddies, and watching my family try gado-gado. It is more difficult to understand the impact of teaching 400 students, when I only see each class for 90 minutes each week. It is unknowable the impact of having small conversations during angkot rides or buying pineapple from the same sweet ibu every week. I'm sure the geckos I talk to won't remember a thing about me.

I'm left wondering: did I improve my students' English? Did I affect Indonesians' understandings of my country?

I know that I'm asking unanswerable questions, not easily-answerable, at least. But this has been a job without much oversight, feedback, or quantifiable results. I don't know what I've accomplished, because the program never made it clear what I was supposed to do.

I am happy to be going home. I'm excited to see family and friends, to eat cheese, bake pies, and drink water out of the tap. Yet, I have a difficult time accepting the loose ends of leaving. I suppose understanding of these sorts of skin-stretching experiences takes time and acceptance that it might come in unexpected ways. The work of cross-cultural exchange is not one that ends simply because I step onto an airplane.