On Health (or) WHOOPS a meatball lovechild

So i have joined a gym or a “FEETness.” Its aptly called the Tiara Club because, well, its the fanciest “FEETness” center Gresik has to offer. Of course there is no A/C nor even a slowly sweeping floor fan. There are 3 resistence bikes, though if you are so picky as to actually require resistence from your resistence bike, you are left with only one. There are 3 treadmills but I have yet to see anyone move faster than a power walk on them and am not sure if faster is an available option. The weight machines are so heavily oiled that the weights often stick together until they suddenly come clamoring down with a crash. And so on...

My first day there I planned on only going for a swim but the pool is closed on Mondays so I asked for a quick tour instead. Beefy white foreigners like Jean-Claude Van Damme wearing get-ups that look like the stretchy lovechild of a pair of Speedos and suspenders adorned the walls in framed posters. Then one walked up to me. The Indo version. The first really built indonesian I have met. He shook my hand then pointed at a bicycle and told me to get on for a 10 minute warm-up. It turned out to be the one with resistence, quite a bit of it. I tried to cut it short, i already rode my bicycle to the gym, a 15 minute ride. But he didnt really understand and i was too out of breath to try my Indonesian again. Then to the weights. Maybe it was because it was the first time i had lifted weights for months, or because i was trying to show the men there that women can lift weights, or the fact that the Indo Hulk was looming over me saying “lagi, lagi, lagi” (again, again, again).

I was still so sore a few days later that my dear dear host sister and host mom had to help me get dressed in the morning and undressed in the afternoon because i could not bend my left arm more than a slight amount without crying out. I felt pretty damn foolish. But they did give me an amazing loooong tiger balm massage in my bed with my A/C on. I am one lucky lady.

I returned a few days later to use the pool. I have always wanted to be a better swimmer. I can sloppily and inefficiently thrash about in calm waters just fine but if i ever needed to fight rapids or waves or conserve my energy over long distances i would be screwed. My good friend kev started teaching me how to swim better during orientation in the Novotel pool. Partially inspired by watching Gattaca on the hotel tv before falling alseep, I got up a few mornings before lecture to practice my new skills and have been meaning to find a place to continue doing so here ever since. My friend who lived here last year told me that she used to swim at Tiara in just her bikini and a tank top. This was a shock to me at first but i confirmed it with the kind english-speaking receptionist who said it would be just fine. I warily stepped out of the locker room with a sports bra, a sleeveless top, and my bikini bottom still covered by a tightly wrapped towel. The shallow end of the pool was filled with screaming little kids being watched by Ibu’s in jilbabs. Until of course they all started watching me. I removed the towel as close as i could to my point of entry into the deep end. I felt as though my bare thighs might as well have been flashing neon BEER signs. i felt as though Allah might strike me down. I clumsily leapt/ran into the pool. I clumsily swam about. In my later exhaustion i accidently climbed back out of the pool a good 40 feet from where i’d left my towel. In a hurry to reach it and avoid (additional) notice, i tried to power walk like the treadmill crowd and WHOOOOPS slipped, flying bare thighs, landed on butt. Had to laugh at it all. Think i maybe won over any Ibu’s who may have been judging my lasciviousness with my comic relief.

Turns out i shouldnt have been so worried about my exposed thighs. Later in the locker room i saw women changing into bikinis with a bit of mesh here and spandex there. They were getting ready for their aerobics class and they somehow changed into these stretchy elaborate get-ups while simultaneously eating meatballs on a stick. Every one of them. There is a meatball-on-a-stick stand (bakso) right outside the gym and it apparently makes a killing every afternoon as women arrive droves to dance about to techno Usher. I tried the aerobics class the other day. It was so crazy fast and rhythmically demanding i gave up after 20 sweaty embarrassing minutes. I’d rather go running than see my multiple reflections flailing about in vain.

There’s nothing like having volcano hikes kick your butt to get you motivated to get into better health. Unfortunately that requires both more exercise and a healthier diet, both of which are hard to come by here. I have been running a few days a week since I got here, with one long break after hiking Rinjani. But when i try to convince myself to get up out of my bed, close my book or dvd player, leave my air-conditioned room and go on a run, there are so many more reasons not to want to than ever before. Whether running in the states, costa rica, or spain, running has always been an act of introspection, an opportunity to get away from it all, a rhythmic escape into my thoughts, panting healing release. It has also, often, been an escape into gorgeous natural surroundings.

Here, I am running out INTO it all. WHAM hot crowded streets, dodging everything from motorcycles, food stalls and their choking haze, becaks and their overly-friendly drivers, to writhing chicken bundles on the sidewalk every stride. i am forced to run solo without musical accompaniment (no ipod until my friend brings one back to me at christmas), so it all rushes in. I am such a ridiculous spectacle, supposedly other indonesians go running here but i have yet to see any other than an old barefoot man on the other side of town. I find myself silently blessing every person i pass who doesnt yell something out to me, try to give me a high five, wave, or try to chase me. After 20 minutes of this deluge i finally leap off the pavement onto grass at my tiny patch of “nature,” a soccer field. I run some laps around one soccer field then run down a busy street again to run laps around another soccer field. There are usually boys playing soccer and they usually yell out “Hello MEESter! where are you going? Where are you from? What is your phone number? I love you? What is our name?” (in indonesian and more or less in that order) they do so relentlessly. Somehow they fail to notice that my conversational abilities might be somewhat hindered by my inability to breathe due to a potent combination of exhaust and exhaustion. How can they fail to notice that crowded beads of sweat are hurridly hurling themselves off my hot skin towards a freefall escape in every direction?

But every now and then i get lucky, arrive at the first soccer field, empty, dusk approaching, softened light floats through a bougainvilla tree, golden clouds, call to prayer resonates harmoniously and for a few laps its strangely beautiful. Sometimes i really appreciate watching a great play in a soccer game or even just hearing the THUNK of soccer balls being kicked over and over again. And sometimes a super cute little kid screams when they see me, little legs a tumbling mess as they chase me down the street and i let them win and its great.

I was going to start writing about all the various forms of deep-fried food but i’ll leave that for another time.