The things I would tell him.

Living far from my father since I was ten, I learned to cherish our good conversations and precious quality time. Those days when he lost track of time and became immersed in the topic. When we dug deeper into our relationship, sorted out painful memories from the past or just thoroughly enjoyed each other's company. The conversations over a meal at Russ' or Arnie's grew in depth as I aged and our relationship shifted from mandatory to intentional. Shared meals evolved from a strict one hour time frame to slow afternoons where we sat for hours and grudgingly said goodbye when other commitments pressed upon us. While living in the USA, every Saturday afternoon he would call. Whether we spoke for ten minutes or an hour was largely dependent on his energy and the quantity of family news to communicate. At times this arrangement was convenient due to my own time constraints, yet in other seasons it was hurtful when I sought his worthy opinion or a listening ear. I suppose you could say he was human and communicated accordingly. When I lived in Zambia, he was difficult to reach online,  but by the time I found myself in Morocco, he was one of my most consistent skype partners. Providing wonderful insight into the Muslim world, we explored the way religions interact with culture. He delighted in my daily joys and listened after particularly soul-crushing experiences. After a full year of talking about Morocco, he made the effort to visit my small town and walked a few miles in my shoes. That trip will forever be one of my most cherished memories of my father.  

After his illness and death in 2015, the most acute loss has been that no one calls on Saturday afternoons. That the world around me continues, but I've lost one of my favorite people to reflect upon it with. That in all things good and bad, I still wait for his well reasoned response and am left wondering, 'what would my dad think?' 

A woman well versed in loss once told me that when I miss him, I should still try to communicate. Whether it's outloud, in a quiet prayer or in my writing, I can present my thoughts and see if I receive an answer. Although the practice often feels strange, it's also comforting and cathartic. During the course of my travels this fall, there have been countless occasions when I've sent my thoughts to him, hoping that someone is listening. Here are a few of the things I'd tell him.

If my dad was enjoying his morning cup of coffee, I'd tell him that I finally understand what he loved about the depths of the ocean. The initial fear and excitement of entering the water and the faith that you'll be able to breathe as you descend meter after meter. That the Indonesian waters are rich with fusiliers, clown fish, eels, tiny mantis shrimp and sea cucumbers. That I can barely wrap my head around the vibrant colors of the coral and the grace of the sea turtles. I'd ask him about his research in Oregon and what drew him to the ocean. We'd talk about how different our lives would have been if he'd stayed in marine biology. Maybe we'd even plan a diving trip together. I think he would have liked that. 

If we were sharing coconut ice cream after some spicy pad thai, I'd tell him about how much I loved spending time in another Muslim country. How the people of Indonesia were incredibly kind, accepting and open and how it was fascinating to see how the world's largest Muslim country operates. How I'd love to live there and explore the islands for years. I'd ask him about the differences between the primary forms of Buddhism in Asia. How frustrated I was that women can't be monks and that I couldn't enter certain temples because I was considered 'unclean.' How those gender norms still exist in Christianity and how damaging it is for women. 

If he were smoking a cigar and sipping a glass of whiskey, I'd tell him about my shock that our country has turned to bigotry and xenophobia. That I cried when I heard about the results of the election and couldn't believe that we elected a man without wisdom or courage. That I fear for the safety of my friends who are black, Muslim, queer, and immigrants. That I fear that my reproductive rights are in question and that we've elected a man who is openly misogynistic. That I feel attacked for being a feminist. That I thought the church stood for the widow, the orphan and the alien rather than for power. That I don't recognize our country and am fearful of the darkness on our doorstep and on the horizon. 

If we were walking on the beach together,  I'd tell him that I'm grateful for the opportunities I've had to travel, but would have traded a few more years with him for all the sunsets in Myanmar. That I'm thankful he gave me an education and encouraged me to think critically about the world around me. That I can't wait to start grad school and it wouldn't be possible without him. That he taught me to love the outsider and advocate for justice and that I plan on continuing that work after school. That even though the world feels scary, he taught me to stand firm and fight for the rights of the disenfranchised. That I miss him, but know that he's with me through the darkness and the light. 

Tales of the Moto

Waking up on the shores of the largest lake in South East Asia, I was looking for an adventure. My fellow backpackers told me the scooter, or moto, was the only way to get around the island of Samosir without perpetually waiting for public transportation and despite my desire to take a 'local ' route from point A to point B, this was the way the locals traveled as well. My hands were tied and I was secretly thrilled to test my skills on the Moto: the most notoriously dangerous yet widely used form of transport in Asia. 

The woman across the street gave me a crash course on the fundamentals of the Moto, having me drive up and down the street once before she let me take her bike. Thankfully she was distracted by another customer when I gently ran the bike into the curb (whoops). Having a total of ten seconds of riding under my belt,  I was ready for the streets of Samosir. The woman reminded me that there was no insurance , ie, I'm responsible for all damages and encouraged me to buy magic mushrooms from her after I returned the bike. Don't be too surprised; magic mushrooms are on the pizzas, in the shakes and are readily available everywhere on Lake Toba. Maybe that's why the people are always singing and dancing  . . . I digress . 

With my overconfident attitude and uninsured bike, I was on my way. Cruising along a well maintained and straight road, I was on cloud nine. To my left, the hillside of Samosir replete with the shrines of the Batak people. To my right, small villages and fields nestled in snuggly before the shoreline. With the wind in my hair, no set destination in mind and two of my favorite French backpackers sharing the moto in front of me, it was a pure moment of absolute freedom and happiness. This was what all the fuss was about. 

Samosir Island, or technically the peninsula, is roughly the size of Singapore and is home to the Batak people. According to Lonely Planet, 'The Bataks were among the most warlike people in Sumatra. . . They were so mistrustful that they did not build or maintain natural paths between villages, or construct bridges.' Cannibalism was practiced until 1816, although it was combined with the Christian faith thanks to German missionaries. Today the Batak people still incorporate animistic beliefs with their Protestant faith and shrines and elaborate graves are found throughout the island. This 'proud, debaucherous Christian people who love a drink'  are fascinating to engage in conversation and even more fun to sing along with. 

Finding a few of the locals along the side of the road, the French girls and I stopped for a spicy lunch of fish and cola. We came for the food, but stayed for the large groups of older men who were fascinated by our height, blond hair and love of riding fast bikes around their home. Sitting down to lunch with the foreigners, they asked standard questions about why we came to Toba, where we're from and what we think of their country. Stomachs full, we jumped on the bikes and continued toward our final destination - the hot springs. 

Two hours later, we hadn't found the hot springs and had run out of gas. Happily we found ourselves on a gravel road just a few kilometers from the nearest gas station and exactly where we wanted to be. In a few short kilometers, the views changed from urban Sumatra to the land before time. Drastic cliffs rising from the lake set the scene. Some were foraged by local woman, others were just on fire. A few weeks before the beginning of the rainy season, these cliffs caught on fire daily and burned until the rains began. Waiting for the liter of gas, we exchanged stories of travel and discussed our hopes for the future. Hopes to see more, to experience the world in a richer way, and to never settle for lives that didn't fit us. Astonished by the natural, harsh beauty surrounding us, we were thankful for the road that brought us here.

All too soon, our motos were refilled and we continued off the hillside. Finally locating the hot springs, we took a quick dip before speeding back to our side of the massive peninsula. We returned to the hostel without incident, and I didn't even wreck my motorbike until the following morning. That's a story for another blog. That afternoon on Lake Toba, we let the day choose our path and were delighted with the outcome. Another reminder that the destination is just that, a destination after a rewarding journey. 

Persons of the Forest

Friendly people, powerful volcanoes and cheap massage; Bali and Java had not disappointed. Traveling westward via one of Southeast Asia's many budget airlines, Sumatra loomed large in my mind. Family and fellow travelers had assured me that the island was amazing 15 years ago and continued to be a must-see, despite the low number of backpackers. 

My first impression wasn't good. Medan, the biggest city on Sumatra and main travel hub, is considered one of the grittier places in Indonesia. Arriving at a central bus hub, I was met with an immediate scam from an uncharacteristically hostile man at the bus station. Thankfully the interaction was short and within 20 minutes I was wildly bouncing around in the back of a local minibus. Mildly entertained by the scratched, skipping music videos produced by 'Medan Media Publications,' it was only when we left the noise of the city behind that I caught my first glimpse of the Sumatran countryside. Small villages punctuated vast expanses of palm tree forest while local children yelled 'hallo!' while chasing the minivan. An hour into the ride, the villages remained uniform while the forest dwindled. We had entered the area dominated by the Palm oil industry where huge portions of land are routinely burned to produce the valuable substance found in western beauty products. The industry is responsible for huge deforestation in both Sumatra and Kalimantan, another Indonesian island blessed and cursed by its rich jungle. The industry pushes into the Gunung Leuser National Park, one of the richest tropical ecosystems in the world and one of the few remaining habitats for orangutans. 

The orangutan, or 'person of the forest' in Bahasa Indonesian, is threatened by extinction in both Kalimantan and Sumatra. An intelligent and solitary creature whose mostly vegetarian diet include nuts, fruits and leaves, the orangutan is threatened due to extensive habitat loss from the logging and palm oil industry. Combined with the seven year nursing period where mothers pass on all essential information to their offspring, the orangutans are in serious danger. Like similar conservation efforts in Southeast Asia, the industrious people of Bukit Lawang have worked to create a tourist experience with the hopes that finances earned from tourism will outweigh the benefits of deforestation and will loosen the grip of the palm oil industry. Despite the additional complication of exposing orangutans to human illness, of which they are highly susceptible, the effort has been successful. 

Arriving in Bukit Lawang, a small village deep in the heart of Sumatra, I located a charming guesthouse and arranged my jungle trek. Like most tourists, I opted for a two day, one night jungle experience. Starting early the following morning, our small group encountered our first orangutan within roughly twenty minutes of entering the jungle. As part of the rehabilitative process in the National Park, orangutans were fed at a local feeding station for years before the population was considered strong enough to survive on its own. A recent change, several of the orangutans in the area are considered to be 'semi-wild' and are more comfortable coming down from the forest canopy to take a look at the visitors. Weening the orangutans off human food is challenging, especially as commitment to the cause varies between trekking companies. While my guide refused to feed the orangutans just to please his western guests, many of the guides feel pressure from their groups to feed orangutans so the group is able to get a better photo or even a selfie with the animal. This practice is damaging for the orangutans who don't develop a healthy fear of humans and won't pass along basic survival skills to their young. 

Encountering these magnificent creatures was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. While slow moving on the ground, once they take the arm or bag of a human, you won't get it back until they choose to return it. While close to orangutans, we were told to keep our bags closed at all times. When an orangutan decides to take a bag, it will carry it to the top of a tree, empty its contents, take any food, and then leave the bag hanging at the top of the tree, almost like a small warning flag for tourists. After the orangutans spent a few minutes on the forest floor, examining its guests, it would quickly return to the safety of the canopy and move gracefully through the forest. In addition to seeing a variety of orangutans, we heard the call of the black Gibbons, played with the pink-haired Tomas monkey who is only found in this National Park, spotted huge turtles and witnessed Sumatran peacocks call to each other in the dense jungle. 

Later in the evening, after a large dinner with abundant tea and spicy cuisine, I sat under the stars and asked one of the guides about life on the edge of this fragile ecosystem. Bukit Lawang is built on the banks of a gushing River that separates it from the National Park. The locals wash, play and drink from its rushing waters, but it hasn't always been a purely positive relationship. Early in the morning in November 2003, when Omar was a young man, he warned his mother that the river looked higher than normal and that they should leave their home on the banks of the riverbed to be safe. Gathering a few nearby family members, Omar and his mother ran to higher ground. During a flash flood upstream, a natural dam broke and sent the river raging through the community of Bukit Lawang. After the water settled, 239 people were killed and most of the riverfront development was destroyed. Omar lost family, but like so many other community members, he had to move forward. Today the basic infrastructure has been rebuilt and the tourists are slowly returning. Omar and his fellow guides seem to look forward to the future of Bukit Lawang and Gunung Leuser National Park, rather than to the tragedy of the past. They seek to protect the natural habitat of the orangutan from exploitative interests, to maintain their rich way of life and to invite the outside world to their home in the hopes that we will see the value in the jungles of Sumatra apart from oil and logging.