Dawn at the Broadway-West 96th Street subway station
Mayoral Election Day 2013
Passing the turnstile at the Broadway-West 96th Street subway station
Harlem Heel – 125th Street subway station
Inside Harlem’s 125th Street subway station
Written on March 29th:
This is Putu. He is one of the employees at the guesthouse at which I stayed in Pemuteran.
After I returned from my experience with the Balinese family on the beach, I sat and talked to Putu. His response to my awe over the hospitality I had just received was kind: “It is the energy you put out, Annette.” We have similar thoughts on the power of loving energy.
I talked to Putu about his life. His twentieth birthday was the same day as the Galungan Festival. He spent his days during childhood helping local fishermen remove fish from their nets. For his assistance, he received a bucket or two of fish. His mother would wake up at four AM the next morning to sell the fish at the market. This is how Putu had enough money to go to school. He now gives most of the money he makes to his mother. “Mothers,” he said, “are the world’s greatest gift.”
Putu was genuinely inspiring to me. At the risk of sounding totally cliche, he had me in tears with his story. He is so young, but so determined, so perceptive, and so sincerely kind. We shared a beautiful hug as I left the hotel, and told each other to continue spreading the love.
I want to take a blog moment to thank all of the mothers in my life. I have an amazing mother, Paula, who continues to teach me compassion, strength, and humility. I also have a global team of mothers in my life who have helped me grow and learn, mothers in Spain, Chile, San Diego, Berkeley, Miami, even Bali. I am so thankful for the women in my life, who continue to show me wisdom and grace.
So is Putu.
Written on March 26th:
I am writing from a tiny hut in northern Bali, in a small diving town called Pemuteran. It is 10:13 PM, the sun set long ago, and I am filled with gratitude. Today was one of my most spiritually awakening days on my trip through Asia, and I feel compelled to write about the kindness that I experienced in the past few hours alone.
I said goodbye to Monica, Jessica, and Sara this morning in Ubud. Monica and Jessica headed back to California; Sara went west to a small beach town (no diving) to spend a week relaxing. I was excited to experience the northern part of Bali, a far less traversed area, and ready to spread as much positive energy as possible.
Wayan, a driver I met yesterday who agreed to drive me the four hours to Pemuteran for half of the normal fee, was early. I surprised him by sitting in the front seat, and we spent the ride talking about our lives. He loves taking pictures, has several jobs (like many people in Bali), and lives with his mother, father, sister, and grandmother, all of whom have never left Bali. He was convinced that I must be a lesbian, as I have no boyfriend, and assured me that he will not tell the government about my (assumed) relationships with women. Indonesia isn’t very gay friendly, apparently. We stopped twice. The first time, we stopped at an overlook of Lake Beratan, rolled our own cigarettes, and drank tea.
I used the restroom (the hut with the hole in the ground, rather) in the house of the person who sold us the tea; in the backyard, there was a cock fighting arena. The man of the house proudly showed me the roosters. When I asked the names of the birds, he showed me their feathers; they tell the roosters apart by dying their wings. He thinks Green is the best rooster. If I were a better (and had less empathy for the roosters), my money would have been on Yellow.
We visited a monkey forest the other day in Ubud, but I didn’t realize until today that all of Bali is just that. Our drive took us over volcanos, alongside rice terraces, through jungle, and past innumerable monkeys on the side of the road. Our next stop was at the roadside stand of Wayan’s friend’s parents. They gave us wine infused rice and smiled broadly when I ate the entire plate (which took strong will on my end). I listened to Wayan tell me about the decorations that are in front of each Balinese Hindu house. Tomorrow is a celebration day for Hindus, during which families celebrate the victory of good over evil.
When we arrived in Pemuteran, which is really just a small collection of home-stays and dive shops along a black-sand lined ocean, I said goodbye to Wayan – who was excited to be my Facebook friend – and hello to Putu, the young man who has been taking care of me at my guesthouse. Putu and I have already jammed out on the rindik, which is the Balinese xylophone that I played with Nyoman during our cooking course.
I took a walk on the beach a couple of hours ago. Balinese people said hello from their homes, grinning at me as I passed. I replied with sincere greetings and soon enough, a Balinese woman struck up a conversation with me and invited me into her home.
At first, it was hard to be trusting. Why would this woman possibly invite me into her family’s space? I was only wearing a bathing suit; she couldn’t possibly think that I had anything to give her. I forgot my hesitation, and went with the natural, loving energy I felt. I spent an hour sitting on the floor of Bitan’s stone home, drawing with her daughter Ani, laughing at language difficulties with her son, Tony, drinking Balinese coffee, and asking Bitan as many questions as possible using drawings to help us communicate. She married her husband when she was 15, after she met him at the local mosque. Ani, who is 16, wants to work in management, although drawing is her real passion. Tony works on a dive boat, and spends his free time volunteering as a reef gardener, protecting the local reef from tourists and locals alike. When I told Bitan I had to leave, she showered me with Balinese jewelry – elaborate, handmade bracelets and necklaces – and hugged me tight. There were tears in my eyes, and in hers. It was one of the most genuine and meaningful experiences I have had abroad.
I didn’t think my day could get much better, until I got back to my guesthouse after dark and Putu suggested I accompany him to the local temple for the festival celebration. I quickly donned my sarong and set out, dodging motorbikes and potholes as I walked down narrow dirt pathways, passing excited families dressed in white. The temple was filled with hundreds of Hindus, playing rindiks, eating carvinal food, dancing, all under a giant, glowing full moon.
Crowds of people swarmed the area of the temple where offerings were being given to Shiva (destroyer of ego), while smartly dressed ‘security guards’ blocked sacred doorways and attempted to ensure a stampede would not occur. I made eye contact with one of the security guards, who smiled and beckoned me to come stand with him underneath the primary temple doorway. His name was Made, and we talked about death. “I’m not afraid of death,” he said in a calm tone, “because Shiva already has a plan for each of us. And my death, and the death of all things, is necessary to maintain balance in the universe.”
After dancing with a couple of little children to the chiming sounds of the rindik, I walked home, feeling charged. I took a shower outside, underneath the full moon. I am so grateful for all that the universe showed me today, and for what it shows me every day, in Bali and beyond: love, death, kindness, and hope.
Written on March 25th:
There is so much to write, I must confine myself to a list of the occurrences thus far in Bali:
1) Monica Myrmo, my dear friend from high school, and Jess Cometa, her fabulous roommate, spent ten blissful days with Sara and me. This is them trying a fish spa, something that Sara and I tried in Bangkok.
2) Kuta is an awful place on the west coast of Bali, filled with Australians wreaking havoc. The mushrooms, however, are fresh.
3) Beware the Snatch Thief: On the walk home from a bar in Kuta, down a relatively dark, narrow, cobblestone street, a motorbike drove by carrying two men. The man on the back grabbed my purse, which was across my body, and somehow got it off of me. By some miracle, I forcibly turned into his arm, and he dropped my bag. I yelled some profanities (gosh, is this becoming a habit?), grabbed my bag off of the ground, and made eye contact with the guy on the back as they drove off. I probably imagined a sheepish look in his eye. I love my purse, and its contents, more than ever.
4) Nusa Lembongan, an island off of the east coast of Bali, is one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. So beautiful, in fact, that I am returning in three days to spend a few days getting my advanced diver certificate in paradise.
5) Plastic sucks.
6) Mantas rock.
7) I overcame my fears following my crash in Thailand, and successfully roamed the entirety of Lembongan Island with the girls, on two motorized wheels, passing under jungle trees and stopping at various pristine beaches along the way.
8) Ubud is filled with temples, organic restaurants, and rich Balinese culture. I was lucky enough to be in Bali for the Galungan festival; homes are decorated with bamboo poles called penjor, and Balinese Hindus celebrate the victory of dharma (good) over adharma (evil).
9) We enjoyed a cooking course that took us outside of Bali, to the market and rice fields of Tangkup Village. We picked vegetables (tapioca, lemongrass, chili peppers, to name a few) with Nyoman on his family’s land, and spent the day cooking Balinese food over an outdoor, wood-burning stove. I now have two recipe books from my trip, both of which I plan on using extensively in California.
10) We ate breakfast on the crater of Mount Batur, and spent a day biking seventeen miles down the volcano, stopping at little villages to try Balinese coffee, tea, and tobacco.
11) Monica, Jess, and I convinced the eight people who were part of our biking tour group to visit Pura Tirta Emple, the “water temple,” on the way back to Ubud from the volcano. It started pouring tropical rain as we arrived. I walked around the temple sans umbrella, breathing deeply and grinning from ear to ear as I became more and more drenched. Monica and I shared a moment in the temple’s cleansing pool, bathing in sacred water as the rain poured over us, that will remain one of the most spiritually cleansing and empowering moments of my life.
12) In Ubud’s Monkey Forest, I got peed on by a monkey. Cue R. Kelly joke.
13) Sara, Monica, and I went river rafting through jungle mountains. There were no release forms, and the guide encouraged us to ride down the rapids outside of the boat. After my first try, during which my helmet came off, I realized this was nuts. I cheered Monica and Sara on as they attempted (in vain) to protect their tailbones.
14) We watched an amazing band – Cooltones – on our last night in Ubud. They played all of my favorites – the Stones, Jimi, Clapton – and rocked it. Jess got up and sang Santana. She’s my hero.
15) I love my friends. They really are amazing.
I totally did it. Our first day in Singapore, Sara looked at me as we were walking down the street and gasped, “Annette, are you chewing gum?” Whoops. Good thing only men (between the ages of 18 and 50) can be caned.
Singapore was stunning. We felt so far from the Asia we have been traveling for the past seven weeks. There is a huge foreign population in Singapore; young financiers come here to make money and enjoy the European luxuries of the city. The architecture is grand and modern, the people beautiful and well-dressed, and the government ensures that there are no mosquitoes in the entirety of the city-state.
We spent three nights with Yesky, a remarkably kind and humble couch-surfing host who has not been in his three-bedroom home alone for three months. He admitted that he is somewhat “addicted” to hosting couch surfers. He moved to Singapore from Taiwan seven months ago and enjoys having a built-in social network in his apartment. Our first night in the city, Yesky – who works as an engineer for Nikon – took us on a tour of the city. We snuck into the Fullerton Hotel, which smelled like jasmine, took pictures in front of the iconic Merlion statue, saw a water and laser show over the bay, and went to the nightclub and pool on top of the Marina Bay Sands Hotel.
Yesky decided to spend a weekend in Indonesia with his friend, so he left his three-bedroom loft to Sara, two other couch surfers, and me. What an incredibly trusting person. Sara and I were due for some rest, so we spent a day shopping for food and cooking Mexican food. I miss white sauce from Miguel’s. Our last day in Singapore, we led ourselves on another phone-guided walking tour, drinking the famous Singapore Sling where it was invented – the Raffles Hotel – and exploring Little India. We got caught inside of a giant market during a thunderstorm; we had lunch with some women from Java and I got a henna tattoo.
I continue to feel surrounded by new experiences. I am finishing this post from a wooden table, next to an infinity pool, in front of a beach, on an island off of Bali: Nusa Lembongan. Bali is going to deserve several posts on its own. For now, I will enjoy the Eric Clapton concert being played on the wall of our guesthouse and get some sleep before I dive with manta rays in the morning. Grateful.
Sara and I arrived to Kuala Lumpur and were immediately impressed by its size and modernity. Our hostel was in the heart of Chinatown, so after a walk through narrow alleyways rejecting calls of, “My friend! Cheap for you!” and “Louis Vuitton! Real!” we arrived at our refuge, where we had a view of the famous Petronas Towers.
The night was kind of a clusterfuck from the beginning, although I don’t think any of us minded. We played cards at our hostel, drinking a traditional Malay rice wine, and (after asking several aloof taxi drivers where to go to a club) finally decided to take the metro to an area of town that a group of young people on the street recommended. As some of the only people still on the metro, we were holding ourselves back from making complete fools of ourselves. Eventually, lost and confused, we decided to try to find a pool hall that Dan frequented during his last trips to the city.
I approached the bar and asked the bartender, “What can we get for ladies’ night?”
He replied with a smile, “What do you want?”
Sara and I ordered two drinks while the boys flirted with the singer.
Five minutes later, the bartender approached where Sara and I were sitting, handing us a bill for 35 ringgit (about 20 dollars). “No,” I smiled and shook my head. “I asked you what we could have for ladies night, and you said that these drinks were free.”
“Oh, of course,” he replied, backing away. I got an uneasy feeling. Sara read my mind and suggested we leave.
I told the boys we were leaving and Sara and I walked outside. When we turned around, we saw that Dan and Dylan, who were attempting to join us, were inside being detained by the bouncers. I had a feeling that it had something to do with our drinks, so I entered the club again. Dan and Dylan took the opportunity to leave, fairly sure that as a woman, no real physical harm could possibly come to me. Sara, the friend that she is, joined me inside.
I explained the situation in a calm and clear voice to the “manager” of the club. He called the bartender over, who readily concurred with my story. Things were said in Hindi between the manager, the bartender, a random woman (who I am fairly sure now was the wife of the owner), and the bouncers. Suddenly, Sara and I were at the door alone – the bartender and the manager had returned to the bar – and a row of bouncers blocked our exit.
“Excuse me,” I said politely, attempting to leave. The first bouncer, who was at least 6’3″ and spoke poor English, stepped in my way. “No,” he replied, “You must pay.”
I couldn’t believe that we were being trapped inside of a club for twenty dollars. Honestly, I don’t think Sara and I even thought that paying was an option; these men were so horrendous, so conniving, that our obstinance directed our choices.
“I have nothing but respect for you and your manager, sir, but right now I feel unsafe, physically intimidated, and unfairly treated,” I said to him, before going to the bar to say something similar to the manager. The manager was equally cold and, for lack of a better word, scary. At this point, Sara and I knew that it would probably get ugly. “You need to let us out of this establishment right now,” I demanded, throwing cursory (and futile) threats of lawsuits into muted ears.
Sara grabbed my arm. “Annette, we have to force our way out the door. There’s no other way. Let’s go.”
When we did this, we were pushed and pulled from every direction by at least four men. Our friends outside were shocked, and desperate to escape the situation. Sara and I, pulling men off of each other, spitting words that she and I did not realize were in our vocabulary, finally broke free and felt the humid, night air. The owner of the club ran outside, screaming, “Assholes!” at us, while I politely curtsied as we ran away. Sara and I, a team until the end, hopped into the nearest taxi, shaking and crying, completely ignoring that we began the night with three additional people.
Written on March 15th:
I am writing from a bus on its way from Lumut, Malaysia to Kuala Lumpur. The sky is shades of yellow and gray. It rained just thirty minutes ago, at six PM, covering the jungle landscape through which we have been driving in a thick, wet fog. At one point during the seven-hour drive, we saw a monkey crossing the road.
Since I last wrote, I have crashed a motorcycle, gotten into graduate school, rock climbed, parasailed at sunset, driven a jet ski, partied with Malaysians, and – many times more – felt profound gratitude for the opportunities I have received in life.
Briefly: By some miracle, I have been accepted to all of the graduate schools to which I applied. Now it’s a question of pragmatics. UNC-Chapel Hill offered me a full ride, Northwestern offered half-tuition, NYU offered a small scholarship, Stanford offered nothing. Columbia is still playing coy with financial aid. Ideally, I will end up in New York City. Both Columbia and NYU offer programs that would enable me to receive master’s degrees in both journalism and international affairs. Plus, how cool is the Big Apple?
Sara and I arrived in Ao Nang after a mini-van ride from Phuket that almost saw the death of my backpack. This was the scene when we got off of the van. We could only laugh hysterically.
Ao Nang is a small town near Railay Beach, where world-famous rock climbers flock to experience the pristine limestone rock walls that line the coast. After another spectacular sunset, only a fifteen minute walk from our guesthouse (the “VIP Hostel”), we booked a half-day rock climbing adventure from a woman named Tam.
I was nervous about climbing. My dear friend Ryan in Miami is a tremendously talented rock climber; the sound advice that he gave me was to trust the rope and enjoy the view. After a wet boat ride with a small group of young tourists, we arrived at stunning Railay Beach.
I tackled four separate ropes, and with the help of our Thai rock-climbing gurus, felt like a champion. So much so, in fact, that when we got back to our hostel, my arms still shaking from the morning workout, I decided that it was the day to learn how to ride a motorbike. I know so little about motorbikes that I actually thought I would be riding a motorcycle, and not the scooter that I ended up abusing. A young guy, larger in stature, showed up at our hostel with a blue scooter, and – showing me through gestures, as he spoke no English – attempted to teach me how to drive the thing. We went to a small street nearby on which I drove the motorbike myself, with complete confidence. At the end of the street, he looked at me, grinning, and – with limited objection from me – hopped on the back. I should have realized how difficult it would be for me to balance with the additional weight. As we were turning onto a main street, driving on the left-hand side of the road, I completely lost control. We went barreling toward the curb, eventually crashing into it after sliding on the bike’s left side for a few meters.
These are some of my bruises from over a week later. Still around. I’ll spare you the bloody toe shot. The guy on the back of the bike suffered some cuts on his arm; the bike ended the day with a strange leak from somewhere over the front tire. Somehow, I only had to pay the cost of renting the bike. I was very lucky, for all sorts of reasons.
That night, Sara wasn’t feeling well. I went out to dinner alone, with my book, and ate fried morning glory and tofu pad thai. I felt better. The next day, it was off to Ko Lanta, another island off of the west coast of Thailand that is known to possess less of an obscene party culture than its neighbor to the north, Ko Phi Phi. It was paradise. Our hostel was directly over an inlet off of the ocean. We could hear the ocean waves while we slept; unfortunately, I could also feel a thin layer of sewage sink over everything in our room during the nighttime. Sara and I spent our time together discovering empty beaches and watching purple sunsets.
I scuba-dived some neighboring islands with a Hawaiian guy named Michael, and swam with a sea turtle for the first time. At some point, we found an underwater cave. We dove through it, swam to the surface of the water, took off our masks, and laughed. We were inside of a perfect cave, sunlight shining up through the water, laying on our backs on emerald green water, giggling at the beauty of it all.
Our next adventure took us to the Malaysian island of Langkawi. After a day’s journey on mini-vans and ferries, we arrived at another island paradise. This one welcomed us with Muslim prayers being played on loudspeakers throughout the town. About 70% of Malaysia’s population is Muslim. We saw women in full burkas swimming at the beach, carrying the weight of their sopping garments as they trudged out of the water. Sara and I spent three incredible days befriending the Malaysian men who run a watersports company on the random beach we selected on a map. Day one was spent searching for cheap beer, which is nothing short of an epic journey in a Muslim country. Toward the end of the day, after a strange interaction with a group of Iraqi men who begged Sara and me to take pictures with them, the Malaysian beach boys started inviting us out to ride on their speedboats while they dragged gleeful tourists around on banana boats. This is Sham, one of our friends.
I spent the next day on the beach with Sham and Mansur, who let me drive a jetski, took me eagle watching (amazing!), and encouraged me to solo parasail at sunset. We talked about religion, women, and family; they bought me lunch and proposed marriage. I went out to a local bar with my Malaysian friends at night, where we laughed at drunk tourists and I learned how to say the numbers one through ten in Malay.
This is the Kiblat compass. It is a mandatory sign in every hotel room in Malaysia that informs Muslims which direction to pray.
Langkawi provided me a unique opportunity to understand Malaysian culture, learn about Islam, and recognize (yet again) how welcoming and loving people can be. Our next island, Pulau Pangkor, was much more secluded. Our first night in town, we ate seafood at a plastic table on the beach, while monkeys climbed in the trees above. This was our pre-jentacular greeting on the island the next morning.
Sara and I spent a lazy day avoiding the heat, and decided to kayak around the islands at sunset. I am continually amazed by Sara’s depth and her willingness to learn about me while sharing the beauty in her.
The graffiti above says “I fix everything.” I wasn’t sure whether to attribute that to the Malaysian flag or the broom. After two days on the island, on which there were only about four shops and restaurants open at a time, Sara and I were ready for a change of pace and jumped on the bus to Kuala Lumpur. Adventure awaits!
From our cooking class book:
Ingredients:
Method:
caughtinannette 