Baptist church, Creole food

I'm currently on day 3 of my midway break. I've been chilling in Singapore before heading to the Philippines for a week and that's my story of the day.

I have had a lot of reminders of America today. First of all, let me tell that it is a lot more like America here in Singapore than it is in Indonesia. With just a half an hour ferry ride, you go from third world to first world and it's trippy, believe you me. I haven't been in Singapore since November, and this time around after having lived in Indonesia for 8 months without leaving the country, I'm now going through what could be called a mild case of double culture shock. The first culture shock would be living in Asia which is foreign from my natural culture. The second would be the difference in life between Singapore and Batam.

This morning I went to church with friend who is going to school in Batam. I didn't realize that it was a Baptist church until I walked through the doors and the first thing I thought was, "this looks like home, this looks like Alabama." From the pews, to the choir loft, to the piano and organ, to the fake flowers. And since it was an international Baptist church, over half the attenders were from the American South (not South America) since all good Southerners are Baptist; making it felt doubly like home to hear the twangy accents rolling around my ears from every side.

Last night, my friend and I decided to make Creole food for dinner tonight, and when I finally returned early today around 3pm, she already had it stewing on the stovetop, the aroma embracing me as a childhood friend. We ate it with bananas foster for dessert. So amazing. I stood on the balcony and looked out at the trees and grass and people walking, with tall buildings against the sky backdrop, and I thought, "I could be standing in America right now." And I pang went through me because when I think about America, I don't really think of places or food. I think of people. I think of you. And I miss you.

Eating Rabbit in Bandung

I sat on a platform, eating rabbit kabobs on the side of a mountain. Behind me was a magnificent view of tea planations and forest, green as you only see in dreams of heaven. At least there would be a magnificent view, if I could see through walls. The other platforms were open to the view, but the wind was strong that afternoon and none of us had worn enough clothing, so we sat in an encased booth with only the fourth wall open, letting us watch the Bapak fan the kabobs currently residing over the grill fire.


Earlier we had been to a crater, standing in a fine mist that was not far from snow. I was in a thin cardigan and leggings. I've only been tired of cold weather one time in my life, and that was at the end of a 7 month, Minnesota winter. So I was not complaining at the winds or the chill that reminded me why I love winter. Instead I found excuses for talking, just so I could see the smoke my breath made as it left my mouth. And my soul rested within me, content. Content in the green, and the cold. In the fried tofu, steaming hot, and the cup of coffee from a mix. In the jokes of my friends, going back and forth between us.

We Found the Candi

We went to an ancient temple while we were in Jogja, called Borobudur. Lost for centuries under dirt that had turned into a mountain, found again to become the tramping ground for looters, locals and finally tourists.

The word for temple in Indonesian is candi, the c is pronounced "ch" and the a is long. But even though I knew the proper pronunciation, I couldn't help thinking of licorice and sour worms and gobstoppers and Turkish Delight every time I saw a sign saying "Candi Borobudur." Ok you're right, I never thought of Turkish Delight.

But oh the incredible patience and devotion to carve stone after stone, layer after layer, year after year. The art and craftsmanship stunned me at every turn.

Still, even in the midst of the magnificence, we received all the attention. Look at the white people go!