A Good Day

Two weeks after we left the comforts of home, we had our first really good day in Indonesia. The veteran Canadian teacher and his wife invited us to lunch. We ate at Sushi Tei, which debunked the doctor’s warning about not eating sushi—something that Dennis was bitterly disappointed about. I don’t think we would have been comfortable eating at a sushi place on our own, and I have a feeling that we’ll be going to Sushi Tei often. More importantly, he really put Dennis’ mind at ease about teaching. I think that this was the first time that Dennis felt that everything would be fine. I’ve been trying to reassure Dennis, but sometimes he needs to hear it from someone else.

They were also gracious enough to welcome us to their home and to meet their two daughters. The girls are so adorable and had us visualizing days with our twins. It was also good to see that larger apartments do exist in Jakarta. Even by western standards, their place is large. I also have to admit that I was pretty envious of their walk in closet—I so, so miss my closets. Granted it’s quite expensive, but it’s nice to know that there are options.

We also explored Taman Anggrek Mall and learned that there’s a money changer there. This was actually the first mall we visited for our first dinner in Indonesia; we just didn’t realize it was the same mall (the ice skating rink on the 4^th floor was a dead give away). We were even comfortable enough to take a taxi on our own. It felt good to expand our little bubble of existence even if it’s only to the next mall over from the mall next to our apartment.

“I Got My Mind On My Money And My Money On My Mind”

In the 10 years that Dennis and I have been married, we’ve never really had to think about money. It’s not to say that we have all sorts of money, it’s just that money was basically out of sight, out of mind. We were paid by direct deposit, paid most of our bills online and used credit cards for everything else. We rarely ever used cash.

Now every time we leave our apartment, I ask Dennis how much money he has. We haven’t opened a bank account nor have we exchanged money. Each time we asked about exchanging money, the principal designate kept on lending us money. The first time it was 1.1 million rupiah (Rp) to buy a cell phone and essentials for the apartment. Then it was another 5 million to cover expenses until we exchanged money.

I honestly have never felt poor until we got here. The sad thing is that we had money; it was just useless in dollars. I didn’t realize how difficult it would be to exchange money here—I just thought that it would be like the Philippines where you could exchange money at SM or with some lady in Santa Cruz. Dennis and I would walk around the mall and need to buy something completely mundane like towels or a blanket, and have to count how much money we brought (many times not enough as it’s more expensive here than we anticipated).

In the US, we’d buy hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars worth of stuff and not bat an eye. We certainly never carried more than $100—even $50 in our wallets—but we knew we had enough money when the credit card statement came. I cannot imagine having to deal with the stress of money on a permanent basis. It’s another one of those things that I never had to worry about, and I completely took that for granted.

At the time of our doctor appointment, we were advised that the appointment would cost around Rp 250,000. We brought 1 million just in case (I don’t even remember if we had more than that in rupiah). The appointment was about Rp 250,000, but the blood test was 1.4 million. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.

They wouldn’t take dollars but asked if I had a credit card. Yes, but they’re not Indonesian credit cards. Nope, US credit cards are no good either. We didn’t know what to do. I had to get the blood test done. What about money changers? Any money changers near by?

Lucky for us, a couple overheard our dilemma and offered to exchange money for us. The wife got on the phone to find out the exchange rate (frankly we didn’t care what it was), and the husband had to go to the ATM to get more rupiah. We exchanged $200 (Rp 1,700,000), which came in handy since we still had to get my prescriptions.

We still needed to exchange money and open a bank account, but everyone seemed too busy to show us. We certainly didn’t know how to go about it ourselves. At one point, I asked again. The principal designate’s response was to lend us another million to tie us over a weekend. When I went to see her, she came out with a stack of Rp 50,000 notes. She hands it over to me and says, “Okay—Rp 5,000,000—that should be enough for now. Is it okay?”

I take the stack of money and say, “Yes.” I didn’t even know what to do with it. I was still having a hard time with all of the zeros. Seriously—5 million? I know it’s not even $600, but it was weird having so much cash. How do I even carry it? That and all I could think about was how we now owed Rp 11,100,000.

A Blast From The Past

At the hospital, I was given a number and told to “please wait”. Women were called into a small room and come out a minute later to wait some more. When my turn came around, they took my weight and blood pressure and sent me back out to wait.

Dennis was watching soccer on TV and I was trying to drink more water for the ultrasound when I turned to Dennis and said, “I bet that’s the doctor.” We looked each other, our smiles almost turning to full-out laughter.

The “doctor” reminded me of an 80s Chinese Kung Fu villain. He walked with a slight limp most likely from age—not from fighting—and wore a dated suite with a collared shirt (unbuttoned of course). His eye glasses could have seriously been from the 80s though I’m sure they’re still available in stores. The best part was his hair. I don’t know how else to describe it aside for it was big and had plenty of volume—it framed his face the way a lion’s face is framed by that golden, glorious mane.

When we were finally called into the examining room, the Chinese boss was indeed our doctor. He looked over my prenatal records and asked me questions mainly about why there are no results for Toxoplasma and CMV screening. He explains that Toxoplasma is common in Indonesia and can be contracted by eating raw vegetables/salads from restaurants as they have been washed with tap water. I tell him that maybe the test wasn’t done because there is no need for it in the US. I asked him what the potential complications are for the babies: (1) blindness, (2) water in the brain, and (3) heart defects. I’m sure there’s more that those 3 were enough freak anyone out.

He explained that I needed to get tested in case I contracted it in the past 9 days we’ve been in Indonesia. Frankly, I knew I wasn’t as careful as I could have been, so it was somewhat comforting to know that effects of Toxoplasma could be prevented with antibiotics. According to the doctor, Toxoplasma is normally discovered in the 1^st trimester. I was already my 2^nd trimester, so it was important to find out as soon as possible. He told me to get a blood test after the examination.

He suggested the following:

1.     20-minute walk every day at around 4 o’clock in the morning to avoid pollution

2.     Classical music for the twins via earphones at the highest volume 5-6 times a day 15-20 minutes

3.     Stop taking my allergy medication, which he did not refill (I was down to 5—he prescribed 10 Claritins instead)

4.     Drinking more water and “mother’s milk” available at grocery stores to supplement the prenatal vitamins, iron and folic acid he prescribed

5.     Eating fresh fruit specifically papaya to help with constipation

I asked him how you say papaya in Bahasa. He looks at me in the eyes and with a straight face slowly says, “Pa-pa-ya.” Dennis and I just about died laughing.

We also saw the twins in the ultrasound. It seemed a lot more crowded in there compared to the first ultrasound. They were swimming around, kicking and turning, and it was hard to get good photos of them. Both pictures were of their backs and were not nearly as clear as their first photos—perhaps I should have drank more water. The doctor said it may still be too early to tell their gender. I told him I didn’t want to know. Dennis, of course, made his preference for twin boys known. The doctor teased that he could tell Dennis, but he didn’t have to tell me. I said no.

"Please Wait"

Our top priority when we arrived here was to find a good doctor and hospital for the twins. I started to inquire about it and was informed not to worry—the Board of Management’s brother is part owner of Pantai Indah Kapuk Hospital. A Canadian teacher also referred us to his Indonesian wife’s OB at PIK Hospital. She had both of their girls there via c-section.

The day of the appointment (07 July 2011), Dennis went down to the lobby at 7:45 am to tell person on duty that we needed a taxi at 8 am. When we got down to the lobby, there was no taxi. By 8:15, we were getting anxious. Dennis’ inquiries was always answered with a smile and “please wait”. So we waited. Taxis would drive by but did not stop, and we couldn’t figure out why none stopped for us.

When 8:30 and 8:40 rolled around, we knew it would be nearly impossible to make it in time for our 9 o’clock appointment. Dennis stood outside waiting—protesting each time a taxi drove pass and practically running after them. He was getting frantic, and I think he was beginning to scare the staff that kept telling him the same thing: “please wait”.

At one point, he was talking to the girl on duty with his eyes glued to the front doors. When he saw a taxi drive by, he rushed to the doors slamming his body against the glass and cursing as the taxi kept driving away. I thought he was going to lose it, and for the sake of completely freaking out the sweet girl at the desk, I went to ask her about the taxi myself.

I ask her if the taxi is coming.

“Taxi have people inside. Have to wait for no people. Please wait.”

Makes sense. I tell her Dennis came downstairs at 7:45 to get a Blue Bird taxi. Why hasn’t it arrived?

“Taxi have people inside. Have to wait for no people. Please wait.”

Okay—I got that part already. I ask her if she ordered the taxi. She takes out a ledger with all kinds of telephone numbers on it. She points to the one that says Blue Bird taxi.

“So you didn’t order the taxi?”

“Blue Bird taxi,” she says pointing at number.

“Okay—so I have to call to order taxi? You did not order the taxi.”

“No, Miss. Have to order.”

Dennis was visibly upset when I tell him the taxi was not ordered. It was 8:53 by the time the taxi arrived to pick us up. Fortunately, the taxi driver knew the exact location of the hospital. We took the toll and arrived at the hospital at 9:07—probably record time.

We Can Say...

We went to Puncak on 05-06 July 2011 for a staff retreat. We drove past Bogor where there is a famous botanical garden and “safari”—too bad we didn’t get to check it out. It was quite a drive, but the fresh air and great views of the mountains was well worth it. We got to know our colleagues better as well as the school’s 3 thrusts. Many of the teachers are actually from the Philippines. There were also team-building games, which is always fun.

The next morning, Dennis played soccer with some of the teachers. One of the PE teachers actually played for the Indonesia soccer team, and the new soccer coach was a professional soccer player for 14 years if I remember correctly. He played for ~10 different teams/countries including his homeland Cameroon, Malaysia, Thailand, Indonesia and a slew of others that I cannot recall until an injury ended his professional career. Needless to say, his skills were far beyond anyone else’s on at the school.

He reminds me a lot of Dixon from Alias. Similar faces with a seriousness that’s quite intimidating until he smiles. I think the main difference is in height. The character in Alias is probably taller, but our coach is by far more muscular. I swear it looks like he’s about to bust out at the seams—he is pure muscle. That and Dixon was always in a suit while our coach is always decked out in Adidas soccer gear. I’d love to see his closet; there’s probably coordinating soccer outfit in every color. I once commented that Adidas must be his favorite. His response was that it’s part of his national identity—that in Cameroon, Adidas is what people wore. On the surface, you’d never suspect that there’s a surprising gentleness about him. He’s soft spoken and kind-hearted.

I don’t know how many games they played that morning or exactly what went down on the field. What I do know is how thrilled and proud Dennis was because he blocked one of the coach’s shots that saved a goal. Granted whichever team the coach was on won (and Dennis tweaked his ankle for the 100^th time), but now Dennis can say that he blocked a professional soccer player’s shot.

We also learned a phrase on our long bus ride back to Jakarta. Why this particular one? We’ll leave that to your imagination (though for once Dennis was not the culprit).

Bahasa:        Siapa kentut?

Chinese:       Shui fangpi?

Tagalog:       Sino’ng umutot?

English:        Who farted?

It’s the 1^st phrase we know in 4 different languages. The only question is: Why didn’t we learn how to say this in Japanese?

For completeness, we’ve used Google Translate: Dare ga farted? Apparently, Google will not translate “farted” to Japanese, but the word for “fart” is “onara”. We’re okay with “Dare ga onara?” To our friends who speak Japanese, please feel free to correct us.

I Wouldn't Play Chicken

Movies totally glamorize the game of chicken and give it a false sense of safety. I’ve never seen a clip where the cars collide head on or the wreckage that follows. Jakarta traffic is pretty much a huge game of chicken where every vehicle—from large trucks and buses to economy cars and small motorbikes—participates. To add to the excitement of the game, other elements are added: overtaking any vehicle at anytime, pedestrians and street vendors with their carts. To announce their presence, there’s constant beeping of the horns and flashes of headlines, which can mean anything:

“I’m right on your bumper and I’m going around you!”

“You better get in your lane ‘cause I’m not slowing down or stopping!”

“I know you’re coming but I’m turning anyway!”

“There’s room for me to go around if you just move a little!”

“Why aren’t you turning/moving?!?”

It’s a wonder that people seem so calm despite all the stress of driving. I don’t think people in the US would be so calm and collected if a Grey Hound bus decided to do a U-turn in the middle of a busy intersection, or if someone decided to turn a two-way street into a one way because they just felt that they could go around everyone else.

On a normal day, the commute to school is 20-30 minutes. On a bad day? Over an hour or so. I’ve always commuted about an hour to work, so 20-30 is not bad at all especially since I’m not driving. Dennis, on the other hand, only had to go 10 minutes with hardly any traffic even with construction along the way.

It’s hard to describe the sheer volume of motorbikes and how no rules seem to apply to them. They weave in and out of traffic many times around other vehicles and each other—it’s really quite a sight. At first I thought of ants, but the comparison is not appropriate since ants are so orderly and follow each other is a single file line. Someone else compared them to cockroaches because of the way they scatter and claim every bit of empty space on the road.

Imagine having to stop behind a few vehicles at an intersection. Before long, motorbikes surround your vehicle and use the foot of space between the bumpers to cut to whichever side there is space or movement. They continue to go around your vehicle until there is no space for them to advance, and you sit there wondering how many children you can sandwich between two adults on one motorbike (for the record we’ve seen one standing in front of the driver, another two between the driver and the adult passenger who by the way was holding a baby—how they can maneuver around all sorts of traffic is beyond me).

There also must be an understood rule that whichever direction has more traffic gets to occupy one lane of the oncoming traffic. Of course it’s the motorbikes that utilize that extra lane. Going against traffic, the motorbikes remind me of the scene at the end of LOTR Two Towers where Gandalf leads the cavalry down that big hill. Wave after wave of motorbikes head towards your vehicle and you want to scream before they swallow you.

The craziest part is that people walk the way they drive—they cut in front of you and hardly ever walk in a straight line or in any predictable path. Dennis and I were discussing whether or not they’re just completely oblivious, don’t know any better or just don’t care. Perhaps someone nailed it on the head when he said, “They don’t care about anyone but themselves—when they’re on the road anyway.”

"Cheap" _ _ _ _ _

There’s a Canadian pizza place called Gian on the ground level of our apartment building. It’s convenient, and we figured it’d be at least hot and safe. Dennis decided to order in person hoping to alleviate the language barrier.

“Name?”

“Dennis.”

She writes: “T-E-N-I-S”.

“No, no… Dennis with a ‘D.’”

She crosses out the “T” and writes a “P”. She slowly looks up at Dennis trying to hold back giggles.

“No, NO! ‘D’! ‘D’ as in ‘dog!’”

We were still laughing about it when the delivery boy came. Dennis thanks him and hands him a tip. The delivery boy looks at the note half shaking his head and turns away without saying a word.

“How much did you tip him?”

“A thousand [rupiah].”

“You do realize that you literally just gave him an 8 cent tip?”

“No,” Dennis is mortified. “Are you serious? I just thought it was a thousand—seemed like a lot to me…”

 
I couldn’t stop laughing. “I bet they’re talking about you right now. He probably he expected a fat tip from the American, but all he got was a thousand rupiah. They’re probably calling you ‘CHEAP PENIS!’”

Everything Powdered

Dennis and I both got sick Friday night after going to the Jakarta Expo. We suspect it was the gado gado, but it could have been anything. Let’s just say we needed to get more toilet paper.

That Saturday (02 July 2011), when we finally had a bit of strength and wanted to eat something again, all we could think of was lugaw (Filipino chicken and rice soup). We only needed a few ingredients: cooking oil, ground black pepper, garlic, onion, fish sauce, chicken, chicken bullion since we weren’t using a whole chicken, rice and water. Little did we know how difficult it would be. The easy part was buying a bigger pot and other cooking utensils; it took us over 3 hours at the supermarket for everything else. An Inggris-Bahasa dictionary would have been nice, but we didn’t have one yet.

Ketchup is not necessarily ketchup. Unless the label/packet says “tomato ketchup”, it’s probably not ketchup at all. Ketchup asin is regular soy sauce, and ketchup manis is sweet soy sauce. AND everything is powered. We had no idea how difficult (impossible in our case) to find ground black pepper. I’m sure it’s available somewhere, just not at this Carrefour supermarket. There were lots of different peppers, but it was all powder—even the ones that read “ground” were powdered. In fact everything seemed to come in powder form, coffee and Milo included. We were told that this was to make things conducive to cooking (this is probably why many dishes that do not look spicy at all are actually super spicy and/or peppery). We settled on “ground” white pepper. It was packaged in a box and sealed in foil bag, so we couldn’t tell if it was really grounded or powdered like everything else. We were just hoping that maybe it would be what we needed.

When we got back to our apartment, the “ground” pepper was pretty much powdered though we told ourselves that it was not as fine as all the others. The propane stove didn’t seem to have a low setting. Maybe I just wasn’t used to it, but every time I tried to use the low setting, it would go out. The pot we bought wasn’t much better, and of course with the high heat and the pepper powdered, I burned the pepper before I even added the garlic. It was a mess, and one of the most frustrating cooking experiences I’ve ever had. The lugaw turned out fine—much more peppery than I anticipated—and it was the first sense of normalcy for us. Too bad I haven’t cooked since.

Mr. USA

We haven’t had much time to settle in since we’ve arrived. People from the school have been picking us up for lunches and dinners. It’s nice especially since we don’t really know where it’s safe to eat nor do we have enough rupiahs to really do anything. On the other hand, it would be nice to really unpack and just sit still for a while.

We went to the school for the first time today. Then it was supposed to be dinner and back home, but then there was word about the Jakarta Expo. Apparently it only happens once a year, and we were just in time to catch the tail end of it. We got there so late there wasn’t much time to do much of anything except eat dinner. We had gado gado, a traditional Indonesian dish made up of veggies, etc. in a peanut sauce. It was okay though spicier than I could handle. Dennis surprisingly liked it. I asked if it’s traditionally served cold, but I’m not sure my question was understood completely. I’ve always found it difficult to eat cold or lukewarm food—who knows how long they’ve been sitting out and if it’s really safe to eat. Even Dennis made a comment about the food temperature, and he liked to eat everything lukewarm in the States.

The best part (and really the only thing we had time to explore) was the traditional Indonesian items. There was a lot of batik, jewelry, woodwork, drums, etc. Of course Dennis wanted to buy a drum but settled for a couple of traditional batik shirts instead. I guess Fridays at the school is traditional wear—not exactly casual/jeans day, but it’s a break from the long-sleeve dress shirts and ties. I bought a traditional sarong. It was fun to watch people haggle the way they do in the Philippines.

On the way out of the Expo, we passed the concert grounds, rides and game booths. There was a pull up bar about 9 feet high with rupiahs taped to it. Guys were lined up taking turns hanging on the bar for as long as they could. Rp 15,000 (~$2) bought a container full of candies/chocolates and a turn at the pull up bar. Depending on how long you hang on, you could win Rp 50,000 (3 mins), Rp 100,000 (4 mins) or a 19-inch TV (5 mins). Of course Dennis thought he could hang on for 30 minutes—how hard could it be?

“Ah, Mister… where you come from? Virginia?”

Dennis points at the “Wisconsin” on his Badger shirt. “WISCONSIN!” he says proudly.

The girl with fake eye lashes and gray contacts is confused. “Wisconsin? I don’t know that…” She improvises, “Okay—Mr. USA, you think you can hang 3 minutes?”

Dennis gets cocky, “Yeah, I can—no problem!”

A crowd begins to gather. The girl hams it up, “Okay, okay—we have Mr. USA from Wis-con-sin. He will hang on the bar!”

She takes him to the front of the line. Dennis doesn’t wait for the chair; he can reach the bar on his tip toes. The crowd goes crazy, “Wahhhh!!!”

“Yes, Mr. USA hang on!”

One of the workers sees that Dennis is actually on his tip toes and starts pointing. The crowd roars with laughter.

“Mr. USA! You cannot have feet touch!” I think Dennis lost all of his clocked time.

Not even a minute hanging on the bar with his feet flexed, Dennis’ hands start to slip. The crowd cheers “Mr. USA!” but to no avail. Dennis lets go at one minute shaking his head and his bruised ego.

“Ah, Mr. USA! Thank you for participation!”

Pak Dennis

“Pak Dennis” sounds like “F@#! Dennis” spoken with a thick Filipino accent (and probably most Asian accents), but in Bahasa “pak” translates to “mister/sir” and is a sign of respect (“ibu” for “miss/missus”). It’s quite amusing when you hear people saying “pak, pak” to get a man’s attention. Sometimes I smile and say, “Pak Dennis!” And we laugh remembering how Dad tells stories where he tells someone, “Pak you!”

First Impressions

Walking through the corridors of Jakarta Soekarno Hatta International Airport (CGK) reminded me of the time we went home to the Philippines after 7 years in the U.S. Beyond the air-conditioned walls of the airport was the thick, humid air worsened by exhaust and other pollutants. It will slap you in the face and swallow you whole until you retreat to another air-conditioned haven.

We walked pass a long line for visa on arrival thankful that we got our visas processed at the Chicago Consulate. Immigration wasn’t a problem, and aside for waiting for the last of the baggage to parade around on the carousels to confirm our box was indeed missing, baggage claim was fine as well. They even provided carts for free—I don’t know of many airports that do that these days.

Minus the hajib that some of the women wore and the semi-automatic machine guns that guards in the Philippines carry, Indonesians look very much like Filipinos. They can even match the rowdiness and loud volumes. The two gentlemen who picked us up from the airport could have very well been Filipinos had they spoken Tagalog. I suppose they can say the same for me—everyone assumes I’m Indonesian until they discover I can’t speak Bahasa.

We expected our apartment to be small by Western standards, and we were absolutely correct. At less than 500 square feet, I’d consider the apartment to be a 1½ bedroom rather than 2. The main room just fits a double bed and a small wardrobe that can’t even accommodate all of my clothes while the 2^nd bedroom is more like an office. It can only fit a twin bed—a dresser would probably make it too cramped if there was one provided.

The living room only has room for a small futon. At least the TV is a decent flat screen—doesn’t come close to Dennis’ Sony 3-D compatible TV, but at least it’s not a 19” old school TV. The dining area consists of the counter that juts out no more than 2 feet between the living room and kitchen. Our refrigerator is a bit bigger than a large dorm-sized fridge, and we have a two‑burner propane cooker. It’s hard to imagine downsizing from our 2 bedroom/2 bath condo in Kenosha, but that’s exactly what this apartment is. It’s efficient, but it would be nice to have a closet or even just cabinets or shelves in the bathroom. At least the décor is contemporary.

An email from the school with an inventory of items in the apartment listed “pan, melamine plate, glass, bowl, spoons & forks.” I didn’t think it was literally one pan, one melamine plate or one glass, and that there would be no knives, cups, etc. It wouldn’t be an issue if the box with the Corelle dishes or Cutco knives didn’t go missing. We bought a few more items but continue to look forward to when our box arrives.

Our balcony looks out to the 2 Olympic-sized pools—we haven’t taken advantage of them yet, but it looks like they’re not more than 5 feet deep, if not shallower. We thought there was a fitness facility, but apparently we were wrong. But there is a convenience store and other shops on the ground level of each building. We’re also across the street from Central Park Mall, and next to it is Taman Anggrek Mall.

 
We thought we we’d be able to rest once we got to our apartment, but people from the school wanted to take us out to dinner. We had steam boat—very much like shabu shabu only the broth is shared by the entire table. We also bought a cell phone and went shopping for essentials like soap, toilet paper and towels with borrowed money since we had not exchanged money yet. By the time we got back, my feet were swollen to a size I didn’t think was possible and looked like giant elephant feet—it took two days before all the swelling went down.

We Hope This Is Not A Sign

If packing was chaos, the journey to Jakarta was pure hell. The travel agency the school used instructed us to go to the International Terminal at O’Hare even though we were flying American Airlines (AA) to LA first. Dad objected but humored us anyway, only to proven correct. That’s not the only thing Dad was right about. The weight of our baggage was checked but not the dimensions—still I did not want to take the chance of having to pay ~$200 fine.

Our flight was delayed over an hour and a half, which caused us to miss our flight to Taipei. We went back and forth between AA and EVA Airways and even the travel agency—none seemed willing to help and only pointed the finger at each other. The worst part was that only 5 out of 6 of our baggage were transferred to EVA. Even after 8 hours of talking to everyone and anyone, we still could not locate our box or get confirmed seats to Taipei or Jakarta. At least we got to spend some time with Ate Malou.

It was 21 hours after our arrival at LAX that we finally got confirmed seats to Taipei. Still, there was no guarantee that we’d be able to get on the flight to from Taipei to Jakarta, and there was no sign of our box. Worst was that the missing box contained the baby essentials: Avent breast pump, baby bottles, pacifiers, sterilizers, etc., in addition to my beloved Cutco Space Saver Knife Set and Corelle dishes (the two things that I knew would make anywhere feel more like home). We thought that maybe the box was already in Jakarta or that it would show up somehow—how could it not?

As soon as we got our boarding passes, we bid farewell to Ate Malou and headed for the security check. Dennis was so eager to get on the plane that he left both of our cell phones at security. We didn’t realize this until we were in route to Taipei. It was a long flight, and Dennis was thankful that we were seated at the emergency exit aisle. He was able to stretch his legs out completely.

The very little of Taipei that we saw reminded me of Japan where the males were made up just as much if not more than the females. They stood just outside of their respective shops dressed in all black—tight, long sleeve shirts and skinny jeans—hair perfectly styled, nonchalant stances, and carefully applied makeup for which I’ve never had the patience to use. I’ve always been amused at how many of them are prettier than their female counterparts.

 
There were no seats for us on the day’s only flight to Jakarta, but when Dennis explained that we were teachers and that EVA personnel at LAX had sent a telex regarding our status, they bumped us up to Business Class. For the first time since we left home, something actually went our way.

Leaving Home

The day we left (25 July 2011) was complete chaos. We didn’t get to see/call all of the people we meant to, and we certainly did not do everything we should have. We really could have used at least two weeks, may be a month, but only had couple of days to pack instead.

My last official day in the office was 21 July 2011, the same day that Dennis returned from chaperoning the 8^th grade class trip to Washington, DC. He came in with me to have lunch to meet my co-workers. Saying goodbye is always bitter-sweet. My co-workers gave us some really generous gifts. Dennis would agree that the highlight were the Packer onesies, socks and footballs from my manager, Val. The NFL Lockout may still be in place, but our twins are already to cheer for the Green and Gold. It totally made Dennis’ day. I didn’t turn in my computer until 23 July 2011. Then there was last minute shopping for the twins, etc. There was just too much to do.

Fortunately for Dennis and me, my family totally came through for us. We can’t say thank you enough. They helped us pack, drove us to the airport and were left with the mess we made at our condo. They’re still doing things for us, especially Mom and Dad who are staying at our condo and looking after our 10‑year‑old Dodge Stratus. We didn’t make it to a quarter of a million miles, but we came close at 249,789—Hunter is a beast! (Yes, we named our car Hunter).

Second Thoughts

I was always certain that Dennis and I would end up abroad. Even when we found out we were pregnant, our decision was still firm—the only thing that would have stopped us was if the school withdrew their offer. Maybe I was completely naïve about the whole pregnancy thing. So many people expressed concerns about the quality of medical care, the baby’s citizenship, how far away we would be from our families, etc. It’s not that we ignored all of these things; it was just that in our heart of hearts, we were so ready to start something new. It just so happened that all of the new things were happening all at once.

Mom and Dad mentioned that they wanted to visit and help with the baby for the first month. I expressed our appreciation but suggested that maybe it would be better for them to come when they went home to the Philippines since the tickets are so expensive.

“Ay sa March pa ‘yon,” Mom said.

“Yes, and the baby will only be 3½ months old…” I reasoned. Mom said Ate Malou would look into tickets, and Ate Marra insisted I’ll need the help. Assuming that the baby arrived around the due date in 16 December 2011, we’d be on Christmas break. I just thought that Dennis and I would be able to handle things on our own. People did everyday—why couldn’t we? And if we needed help, we’d be able to afford a nanny.

As for medical care, there’s bound to be some good facilities in a city of 9.5 million people, not to mention Jakarta is the capital of Indonesia, right? Plus, my mom had all of four of us in the Philippines, and we turned out fine.

All of this calm and reason changed the day we found out we were having twins. Instead of insisting my parents didn’t have to come, I was asking, “Who’s going to come? Can we get a relative from the Philippines to come?”

My confidence in finding an appropriate medical facility faltered and was the main reason for my second thoughts. I finally started reading the book we were given at our first appointment, What to Expect When You’re Expecting. There was a section on multiple births filled with risks and complications for twin pregnancies—that twins are monitored more closely and often come early. Would our twins receive the same attention abroad? What’s the availability and cost of facilities specializing in premature births? Perhaps I should have been asking these same questions when we were expecting a singleton, but to me, it seemed that we’d be able to cope. Having a baby is one thing—having twins is another.

Still, Dennis was right, it was too late. Our tickets were issued, and our visa application was in progress. Plus, Dennis had already requested a one-year leave of absence, and I was already wrapping things up at work. Everything was already in motion, but I have to admit that I wasn’t completely certain or prepared for once anymore.

Surprise, Surprise!!

Ten days before our departure on 15 June 2011, we had our first ultrasound. I was instructed to drink four 8 ounce glasses of water 1½ hours before the appointment—a huge challenge for someone who doesn’t drink water. I can’t say that I drank that much, but by the time we were at the appointment, all I could think about was going to the bathroom.

The technician kept sliding the device back and forth in different angles with one hand while the other worked the keyboard and the mouse. She looked at the screen intently creating lines that I assumed measured the baby’s size. After a few minutes, she said she had to step out to complete some forms. When she came back, she was accompanied by another lady.

With their eyes fixed on the screen, they talked quietly for a minute before asking if the doctor had said anything specific to us. All of this would have probably sent some red flags to other people, but we were clueless. All Dennis could see were blobs that kept changing shapes; I couldn’t see much of the screen and was thinking about how I really needed to go to the bathroom. Nope, everything is normal—there was some blood work, but we didn’t hear anything back which usually meant everything is normal.

“So you’re having one baby?”

We didn’t know that we were supposed to respond that.

“Because there’s another one in there.”

“What?!? Are you serious?!?” Dennis held my hand.

“Yup. Here’s one… and here’s the other.”

Had Dennis’ smile been any bigger, he would have swallowed his head. He was thrilled, and I could already see the stars in his eyes as they envisioned twin boys competing in 2-on-2 basketball and volleyball tournaments. Don’t get me wrong—I was thrilled, too, but that was instantly followed by panic. I thought about the only things we had ready for the move (the baby stuff) and how I have to get more bottles, nipples and pacifiers. How we’re going to need a double stroller and two car seats. How we’re going to need another nanny. How we’re going to have to tell the school. Dennis was completely overwhelmed with joy—I was just completely overwhelmed.

The tech was just as happy asking us if we really didn’t know. “People usually know… I’ve never surprised anyone before.” She said something about how twins are monitored more closely, etc., and how we were now going to take some cute pictures.

After taking pictures of Baby A and Baby B, we were free to go to digest this new development. I finally got to go to the bathroom. When I returned, Dennis was still smiling looking at the twin’s pictures. I could hardly believe what I was going to say, “Do you think we should stay?”

Dennis was surprised, and so was I. “Don’t you think it’s a little too late for that?”

Hearing Is Believing

As awful as this is going to sound, I have to say that pregnancy is not my thing. I understand and appreciate that it’s the miracle of life, and have several friends who have always spoken about how awesome it would be to be pregnant. And yes, I know that this is how it goes, but for the record—whether this is truly how I feel or if it’s the hormones talking—pregnancy and me do not go together. If I could have the baby tomorrow (or yesterday), I would—or if the baby magically appeared or an actual stork delivered our bundle of joy, I would be okay with that.

My first trimester was pure exhaustion. I could not stay awake nor could I stay asleep. Those sleepless nights waking up every hour were actually symptoms of pregnancy, not necessarily the stress of contract negotiations. I consider myself very lucky for not having morning sickness or vomiting at all. I was actually pretty good in the mornings and got progressively worse as the day went on. I had couple of embarrassing, uncontrollable emotional moments at work, and Dennis would say magnified mood swings and bouts of irrationality at home.

The nurse at our intake appointment on 04 May 2011 reminded me of Natalie Portman—in looks, stature and mannerisms. She was lovely and approachable. At the end of the appointment, she asked if we had any questions. I expressed concerns about fatigue, etc., all of which were normal. Then merging from his seat at the corner of the room, Dennis asked with caution in his voice, “What about the mood swings?”

I looked at him in disbelief and retorted, “It’s NORMAL!!”—seriously, who asks that?!?

The nurse’s eyes darted back and forth between us before she and I started laughing controllably. Between giggles, she confirmed, “Yes, that’s pretty normal.”

Our next appointment on 07 June 2011 was with our doctor, who was equally nice and approachable. Dennis came along and was disappointed that we were not having an ultrasound. The doctor did, however, recommend we get one before we leave the country. She also asked how sure I was about my last cycle explaining that my uterus is bigger than 12 weeks. Perhaps I was later in my pregnancy and the ultrasound would verify that, she said.

Aside for the exhaustion, mood swings and my clothes being more snug around the middle, the pregnancy seemed unreal to me. Sure it had been confirmed medically several times, but there was a part of me that insisted on not being too excited. Our family knew too well how fragile and risky the first trimester is—that pregnancies do not necessarily equate to babies—and I suppose I was trying to protect myself from heartbreak. I sometimes asked Dennis, “How do I even know the baby is in there?” It’s a silly question, but fear does silly things.

When the doctor placed the fetal doppler on my lower abdomen, my entire world changed. “It is there,” I heard myself say. The doctor had warned that it may take a while to find the baby’s heartbeat since it was still early, but she found it instantly—strong, steady and incredibly reassuring. We listened for several seconds until the baby moved away. I don’t remember the exact statistics, but the doctor said something about how a very high percentage of pregnancies (85%-95%???) are successfully carried to full term if the heartbeat could be heard at 12 weeks.