Workin' It
I realized today that I haven’t written anything on this blog about one of the loves of my life in Malang—my gym. I searched for a gym the first four months in Malang and finally found one in early December. It’s called Istana Dieng.
I first knew this was my gym when I walked in the front entrance and saw that suspended from the ceiling were giant portraits of people Indonesians consider to be American paragons of fitness and manliness: John Wayne, Robert Mitchum, and Brad Pitt circa 1985. From the entrance you can also see the neon light up stairs, the many koi ponds, and the discoteque/bowling alley. There’s a steak restaurant downstairs, a Japanese reaturant upstairs, and an ice-cream stand by the gym entrance. In the back is a water park: three huge pools with slides and suspended walkways that are wrapped around them. I almost started hyperventilating; it was that beautiful a building. And I hadn’t even been inside the main gym yet.
Note: the following may seem like an exaggeration, but it’s absolutely true.
You walk into the main gym and plastered all over the walls are huge posters of extremely jacked men and women. My favorite features a muscular woman squeezing the bicep of a giant man and a thought bubble saying, “Women love men with HUGE muscles!” Next to that is a sign advising that in order to get the largest muscles, you need to pump the big weight. This can be achieved through dedicated and strong lifting partners, says the next sign. What make these signs so funny is that the people in the gym are the smallest, least muscular people I’ve ever laid eyes on. They struggle to do lat pull downs with fifty pounds and gawk at me when I can do eighty. My relative beastliness here is another reason I love Istana Dieng.
When I went in my first day to work out, an abnormally tall and fit Indonesian man named Taufiq introduced himself to me and said he would help me train, because “I obviously had a lot to work to do and I was very big.” I started laughing and allowed him to measure my body fat and weigh me. I’m not going to write the measurements here, but they weren’t too bad considering I hadn’t exercised in about five months. A good stomach virus every month or so helps to keep the weight off, I’ve discovered. Taufiq, however, could barely hide his horror.
“You are very big. You need to lose ten pounds this month and twenty more by the end of March (I actually checked these numbers on the BMI scale and those weight measurements would give me a BMI of 14, which is decidedly NOT healthy). When I argued that I had half a foot on everyone else in the gym and that’s why I was bigger, Taufiq told me that making excuses would prevent me from ever losing weight. Well, that settled it I guess.
There isn’t really an AC at Istana Dieng, so my workouts are limited to about 45 minutes of trotting on a jerky treadmill. Apparently their commitment to muscles extends more to the weight machines than building lean muscles on the treadmill. Occasionally Taufiq tells me I look “maybe not as big today” and that I should run faster.
I can only run for so long before some kind of class will start behind the treadmills. The soundtrack in Istana Dieng is usually pretty standard: the ATL CD by T.I., anything by Tupac, and my personal favorite, 3 6 Mafia. Nothing is edited at all, like most rap in Indonesia. They want to pass a law making tank tops illegal, yet they blast music about bitches and drugs. Beats me.
Every once and a while I’m lucky enough to be at the gym when line dancing class takes place. Indonesian women and the occasional man in workout gear don cowboy hats and prance around to whatever kind of music you line dance to. I thought this was my favorite class. BUT the other day the cheerleading class took over the top spot. One woman, dressed in a tiny skirt and a half top, energetically led four other women in an hour of cheering with pom poms and hand claps. This was all performed to Madonna and Britney Spears.
The great thing about Istana Dieng is that because everyone stares at me so often, I feel absolutely free to gawk back. I get off the treadmill and laugh at the people doing line dances; I see nothing wrong with staring at the people on the machines until they get uncomfortable and get off. Unfortunately, this policy came back to haunt me today.
I ride a mikrolet for half an hour and then take a motorcycle (or ojek) up the hill to the gym each day. So when I got there today and realized I had forgotten my shorts, going home wasn’t really an option. So I went to the front desk and asked if they had anything I could wear. Here are the options they presented me with:
1. A pair of men’s running shorts, like the ones they wear in the Oylmpic marathon—short and sweet. Basically flesh colored underwear with three inches of fabric on each leg.
2. A pair of white, size small children’s capri pants from Old Navy. They were stretch jean material.
3. A pair of shorts which I swear to God wouldn’t have fit me anytime in the last fifteen years. The waist must have been twelve inches.
4. A pair of pink spandex pants.
The girls who work at the gym are my age and find my awkwardness and hugeness extremely entertaining. They made me put on the spandex pants first. They were so tight I couldn’t walk. They assured me I looked beautiful.
Options 2 and 3 were not viable; nothing about my knee was getting into them. So Option 1 seemed to be it. I put on the shorts, covering up exactly 4% of my legs. I let the girls laugh at me for a while, and then just decided to own it. I’m in a gym in Indonesia that idolizes Robert Mitchum, has a bowling alley, and offers line dancing classes. Might as well fit in.
So I walked across the mirror paneled room, smiling and nodding at each exerciser who stopped to stare and point and giggle at me. As I told one especially giggly man, “Oh please…you WISH you had these shorts on.” And he just nodded and giggled some more. It was one of my most satisfying workouts ever.
In Theory, It Was A Good Idea...
I'm in Bandung, West Java, right now visiting Ann and Elena, two other ETAs. I could have flown here, but getting to Surabaya, taking a plane to Jakarta, and then taking a train to Bandung seemed like a big hassle when I could just sit on a bus for ten hours. Also, a train from Bandung to Jakarta derailed last week and fell into a gorge. So I went to the bus station yesterday, bought a ticket, and settled in for the ride. Let's look at the stats here:
# of unexpected detours to Surabaya: 1
# of hours the detour added to the trip: 5
# of hours we sat in the Surabaya bus station: 2
# of men who tried to take Layne's iPod from me: 2
# of men who tried to sit on my lap and listen to Layne's iPod with me: 1
# of times I told him to get off: I lost count after ten
# of times I screamed at him to get the f**k away from me: 1
# of dads who came to the rescue: 2
# of hours my male seatmate used my chest as a pillow: 15
# of hours after eating at a truck stop that I became violently ill: 5
# of hours left in the trip at that point: 8
# of donuts I ate and then threw up in the bus bathroom: 2
# of hours I slept on the bus: 2
# of stops we made to pick up passengers at their houses: at least twenty
# of times I asked my seatmate to stop poking me and asking me questions: 5
# of times I changed my seat: trick question! the bus was full
# of hours left when Layne's iPod ran out of batteries: 7
# of times I cursed Pahala Kencana bus line: oh, so many
relief at reaching Ann's house: boundless
actual number of hours in the "10 hour" trip: 19.5
Well, at least I'm not afraid to fly anymore. And I can check "get violently ill in the tiny bathroom of an Indonesian bus while bouncing around mountain roads at 3 am" off my list of things to do here. What a relief!
After all my whining though, Bandung is actually really cool--good food, tons of shopping, and cooler than Malang. Ann and I are going to Jakarta for the weekend so I can continue my quest for a new iPod. Should be epic.
Sometimes I Go On Elephant Safari...ALONE
My father talked a real big game before he came to Indonesia about how he was going to ride an elephant. Rode e-mails about it, scouted the location, just generally played it off as a certainty.
Until...my mother was attacked by an Indonesian monkey (see below, "An Indonesian Tale of Assualt and Revenge"). Suddenly the elephant park was no longer a priority...and whoops! we ran out of time.
Since I decided to stay in Ubud by myself, I really didn't see any reason why I couldn't represent the whole family in spirit at the Taro Elephant Park, about 40 km north. There are signs every 3 m (which regrettably use a quote from the late Steve Irwin on them, but Indonesia will never take them down for the tiny, insignificant reason that the man is dead), and someone named Wayan drove me there.
It cost $10 to just enter the park and see the elephants, and $50 to actually ride one for half an hour. I scoffed at the prices and bought a general admission ticket. There's no way I was paying $50 to sit on an elepant for 30 minutes.
I have to admit, I was a little disapointed at first. Recently an elephant killed a bunch of villagers in India because they'd murdered his mother when he was a baby and he apparently remembered them. There were warning signs all over about not antagonizing the elephants. I rushed in, wanting to see an elephant freaking out a la Dumbo's mother...but they were actually pretty small. A cheerful placard on the wall informed visitors that Sumatran elephants are the smallest and most friendly in the whole world, unlike Indian elephants. You could feed them, pet them, stick your fingers down their trunks (ok, that wasn't
expressly stated, but it was implied, I thought).
I played along for a while, but then I saw the elephants strolling along, chairs loosely tied to their backs...and I couldn't resist. I had to ride one. So I threw down another $40 and waited anxiously in line. Was it going to be that big one over on the right? The one with the giant tusks? The little girl elephant who wasn't much bigger than a horse...oh no. I tried to refuse, but they insisted this was my elephant. Her name was Ramona and I sulked on her back for a few minutes before the guide drew me into an elementary Indonesian conversation. I asked if Ramona had any skills that made her better than the other elephants, and it turned out she did. Ramona could play the harmonica!! She plays it the same way I do, which is just blowing air in and out regardless of pitch or notes, but still! We rode off down the path, my chair sliding precariously off the elephant's side as she played a little ditty on her harmonica.
After the ride I bought a picture of myself on the elephant from the giftshop (for my father!) and then sat and people-watched for a while. When I woke up that morning, I had given a fair amount of thought to what I should wear to an elephant safari park. In the end, I decided flip flops were probably OK since Indonesians don't even wear shoes a lot of the time.
I mention this because the other patrons of the park had clearly NOT given any thought to their outfits, unless that thought was "this is my vacation and I'll wear what I want." I'm also going to throw in that everyone besides me was European, and I know this for a fact because I checked at the front desk on my way out. People wearing midriff tops, booty shorts, men with no shirts, no shoes, and extremely abbreviated pants--things that would grab a second look anywhere but the beach. I was chuckling in my head when the best family of all walked by. For their day in the elephant park, they chose to wear...bathing suits. The three women were all wearing tiny bikinis, and the man was wearing a Speedo. Around his waist was a fanny pack, where I can only assume he kept his family's money and dignity. They were also one of those families that fight loudly in public, my absolute favorite kind. I think they were speaking Dutch. Their fighting included a shoving match by the edge of the ramp where you mount the elephants, the dad almost going over the side. I didn't want to laugh out loud, but watching four people in bathing suits ride elephants might have been the best thing I've ever seen. If only my family had been there too!
Indonesian Holiday: An Interview with Emily and Grace Kunkel
By Guest Columnist Ezra Flam
Ezra: What would you say was the highlight of this trip for you?
Grace: Definitely all the cute anak anak laki lakis.
Emily: I would say the highlight for me was the art. Indonesia isn't well known for their sculpture, but they have some very romantic works of art. For example at one hotel we stayed in there was an exquisite sculpture of a man with a massive apparatus, and at another a statue of two deer frolicking together. I cant think of any American artists who have the ability to capture the eccentricities of life so beautifully.
Ezra: Of course, it wasn't all hotels and resorts, was it? In my background research for this interview I spoke with noted Sociologist and Indonesian expert Aidan Burn about the slew of natural disasters that have recently plagued the country (massive flooding, ship sinkings, plane crashes, food slathered in mayonnaise). Aidan suggested that so few people survive these disasters that it must be remarkable to find people actually living in the islands of Indonesia. Did you experience that?
Emily: Well, we did. We spent one evening on a ship called "The Titanic." I took double the recommended dose of Xanax before I got on the boat.
Grace: And flooding was an issue for us. At one point we were crossing between two Islands, the bridge was flooding, and we had to decide if we wanted to caulk the wagon and float it, try to ford the river or hire an Indonesian to ferry us across.
Ezra: What did you do?
Grace: We tried to ford the river. Of course, in the crossing we lost all our food, 4 sets of clothing, 2 oxen and Monica got bit by a monkey and contracted Avian flu, from which she is still recovering.
Ezra: What about Larry?
Emily: He was hard at work exploring the feasibility of marketing Cryomaxx in Indonesia.
Ezra: Well thanks for taking the time to talk to me. Do you guys have any ideas about Kunkel Christmas ‘07?
Emily: Well obviously that’s proprietary information, but there are definitely a few places on the short list.
Grace: Monica did mention something on the flight back about wanting to see the United Arab Emirates, but I think Larry would rather hunt Alaskan Moose in the Northern Territories, so we’ll have to wait and see.
An Indonesian Tale of Assault and Revenge
This is a story about monkeys.
Once upon a time, there was a woman named Monica Kunkel. She was very smart and cautious and she always vaccinated her children against diseases, valid or not (Japanese encephalitis, anyone?). She was scared of contracting rabies.
But then one day, Monica and her family went to Indonesia. While there, they visited a beautiful town named Ubud. One of the main tourist attractions in Ubud is the
Ubud Sacred Monkey Forest Sanctuary.
Relaxing outside this self-proclaimed "sanctuary," Monica let down her guard. A little
too much. Her daughter Caitlin, who had seen the other monkeys in Indonesia and knew they often attacked for no reason and were hateful, dirty creatures, saw that a monkey was climbing on the branches right above her and Monica's head. Caitlin, acting wisely in terms of her own self-interest but perhaps selfishly when it came to her mother's, immediately ran away from the monkey. Monica, unaware, sat and smiled.
Then the monkey jumped down next to Monica, his eyes on the bottle of Aqua water next to her. Monica turned, saw a large monkey sitting next to her, and smiled. The monkey bared his teeth and snared. Hoping to avoid confrontation, Monica turned and faced front again.
Now her husband, Larry Kunkel, saw his woman being threatened and picked up his briefcase, preparing to nail the monkey in the head. In the meantime, the monkey, mistaking Monica's look for one of thirst and wanting to protect his bottle of water, lunged toward her and bit the side of her polo shirt. Monica remained calm, and in fact seemed not to realize she was being bitten by a wild monkey in Indonesia. Caitlin, knowing she had had her rabies shots and was thus immune to this danger, laughed and took a photo. Emily and Grace yelled. The European tourists and Indonesians lounging around said nothing and looked away.
Perhaps menaced by Larry heaving his briefcase, the monkey let go of Monica's shirt without puncturing her flesh. He grabbed the water bottle and proceeded to drink it a safe distance away, glaring at the Kunkels. Caitlin kept laughing and taking pictures; Emily and Grace kept yelling; Larry became flustered; but Monica stayed very calm. Only when the news was broken that the monkey had in fact been biting her did she seem disturbed. But, she was unharmed (her shirt, however, was covered with monkey teeth marks and dirty saliva) and the Kunkels vowed never to go to the Monkey Forest again.
The End
Except that's not the end. Wanting to seek revenge for my mother, I went to the Monkey Forest on the 2nd, the day after my family went home. Against my better judgement I bought bananas at the front gate, although Layne had warned me not to.
Less than three minutes after I entered the forest, a large monkey attacked the man in front of me, tearing his bag from his hands. Although I couldn't be sure, his bold and reckless behavior led me to believe that this was, in fact, the same primate who had dared to assault my mother.
I think he may have recognized me as well. Seconds after destroying the shopping bag of the Dutchman in front of me, he turned and charged toward me. I threw a banana at him, hoping he would be placated. He kept coming. I threw the entire bunch at him, hitting him in the chest. That slowed him down a little but he continued running at me, and I started to scream. Then the monkey climbed up my legs and chest, and I could only assume that he was going for the jugular. Fortunately I was holding my camera in my hand and punched him in the face as he reached my neck. He fell backwards onto the ground.
At this point, tourists were staring and taking pictures. The Dutchman sympathized with me and gave me more bananas. I should have been the bigger person; I should have just moved on. But instead I turned and yelled at the insolent monkey, who was guarding my fallen bananas, "You stupid monkey JERK."
I kid you not, that monkey understood. He immediately took off for me again. I had turned to run when an Indonesian "Monkey Forest Employee," a.k.a. a man wearing a dirty blue shirt, intervened. I assumed he had some strategies to calm the monkey, which I guess in a way, he did. He simply kicked the monkey in the chest and sent him flying into the forest.
I was briefly concerned for the monkey's health. After all, he was supposed to be sacred. But he got up right away and sat sullenly off the path, chastised. I turned to the Indonesian man, fearing a rebuke. But he just laughed.
"Monyet gila!" he said happily. Yes, I agreed, dusting off my shirt and straightening my hair, that was one crazy monkey.
The End (I hope)
The Aftermath of a Very Kunkel Christmas
1. The Internet works again. The day my parents arrived, there was an earthquake in Taiwan that knocked out the Internet for most of Southeast Asia. Countries that care about the Internet and use it to conduct things like, oh I don't know,
business, restored connections in 20 hours. Indonesia took about a week.
2. Ten years have been shaved off our lives. We took a horrible little plane (Batavia Airlines) from Denpasar to Surabaya on December 26th. We took off, flew directly into a monsoon, and spent the next hour plunging up and down, shaking back and forth, and (poorly) negotiating massive storm clouds. I cried and gasped so everyone else on the plane could share in my alarm. When we stood up, I shakily told my mother that it was one of the worst flights I'd ever taken. Her response? "Oh, I just thought all Indonesian flights were like that!" Ah, ignorance is indeed bliss.
This would later be amusing to look back on if not for the fact that a plane from another domestic airline, Adams Air, went missing on Monday while completing the trip from Jakarta to Surabaya to Makassar (Sulawesi). After FALSE REPORTS of survivors were given by the airline spokesman (that's Indonesia for you) he admitted that in fact not only had no survivors been found, but the wreckage hadn't either. Boats are combing the Java Sea and the coast of Sulawesi.
3. Exactly one hour after arriving in Malang, Layne found us at Hotel Tugu and passed along the crytic message from the US Embassy that Malang was on terrorist alert and we should absolutely stay away from Western hotels. Like the one my parents were in. Well, the bill was already paid so they stayed there anyway. Take that terrorists! Despite repeated text messages, I never did find out what all the fuss was about.
4. I doubt the students and teachers at my school are ever going to recover from the site of five pale, tall, light-eyed people walking the halls. Or the massive bags of candy canes and chocolate coins. Or just my father, in general. He inspired awe whereever he went (not that he doesn't in America!).
5. My family got to partake in some very excellent and Indonesian modes of transportation--mikrolets, the strange ferry with no passenger seating that runs between Java and Bali, the thirteen hour ride through rice paddies, villages, and mountains to get to Denpasar from Malang. Ask my father to tell you about the petrified forest near Banyuwangi--he's probably having nightmares about it.
Phew. I'll have to recap the rest in detail later. I need to put into words my horror regarding Indonesian domestic flights. I'm still in Bali now--all my plans to get to Lombok have been foiled by my plane phobias and actual/imagined dangers. My first flight attempt on New Year's day went like this:
--Arrive at the airport--no problem
--Take a bus to the airplane, which I assume is Lion Air, since that was the airline I purchased a ticket on and the name on my boarding pass.
--Arrive at the plane--surprise! It's Wings Air! For those of you who have never had the pleasure of seeing a Wings Air plane, on the side is painted the catchy and memorable slogan, "fly is cheap." This particular Wings Air plane also had propellors instead of engines, no place for the checked bags, and an alarming dent in the side.
--Laugh and say out loud, "that's the most dangerous looking plane I've ever seen." No reaction from other passengers. I repeat the statement in Indonesian. Nothing. I begin to worry this is a suicide flight everyone knows about except me. Everyone else boards. I ask that my bags be taken off the plane. The men laugh and say no. I revert to age 3 and stamp my foot and cry. The bags are removed from the plane and dropped onto my feet. I'm bused back to the terminal where I flee back to a villa in Ubud and sleep the rest of the day.
I had another flight booked this morning on Merpati Air, which is owned by the governent and "very very safe," according to my hotel. I fully planned to board the plane this morning, I did. But then it monsooned all night to the extent that branches kept flying into the windows of my room and I couldn't sleep. Around 2:30 I tried to turn on the lamp and got a scorch mark on my hand when all the electricity went out. At 5 am, 1 hour before I was supposed to leave, I received this phone call from the hotel manager, Ketut:
Ketut: Ahhh, Miss Caitlin, maybe because of raining not so safe to fly today. Maybe later yeah? My friend from government call and say maybe no fly until the 6th, weather very dangerous till then, maybe the planes will not work.
Don't have to tell me twice, Ketut. I don't know if it was a ploy to get me to stay longer at the hotel or an actual attempt to save my life, but stay I did. You can get to Lombok by ferry, but in the past five days two Indonesian ferries have sank so that isn't really a viable option either.
So I'm in Bali for the rest of the month. Not as exciting as getting to see some of the other islands, but holing up in a villa in Ubud rather than hurtling through a stormy sky on a plane emblazoned with a gramatically incorrect slogan certainly sits well with me anyday.
*Mental Health Note--Plane Phobias, successfully conquered in late July with the flights to Indonesia, have returned in full force. Ability to take domestic Indonesian flights in the near future--doubtful.
