I run

February 1, 2012
This is the second day in a row that I've gone on a run! Yesterday I pushed myself and ran for 25 minutes and cool-down walked for another 5 or 10 minutes. I just now got back from a 15 minute run with a 5 min cool-down walk. I'm really proud of myself because it's so hot and humid that it's easy to be lazy--I'm also really out of shape... When I run it gives me endorphins; I sweat and I feel cleansed. When I run I interact with Indonesians and say good afternoon to them. They joke around with me about running and getting exercise; they think I'm this crazy olahraga bule who looks like Barbie but gets really sweaty and red in the face when I run.
I run through side streets, dirt paths between concrete or brick houses.
I run past barefoot children and barebutted babies.
I run next to picket-fences constructed of bamboo and reed.
When I run, I share the road with cars, motorized scooters, three-wheeled rickshaws, bicycles, vendors with portable food carts, cats and children at play in the street, and chickens.
I run past elderly men and women holding their great grandchildren;
I run past houses with tin roofs.
I run past houses with clay tile roofs.
I run past what I hope are abandoned houses that have no roof.
I run past school children walking home from school.
I run past in-house warungs.
I run past song birds in hanging cages.
I run on dirt side-pathes next to open drains filled with black and grey water; in the shade of fruit trees and the great leaves of the banana tree; skirting along the moss- and vine-covered brick wall thats mostly cement molding, I pass muddy puddles and great chasmed pot-holes in the road.
I run with the smells of Indonesia: the stench of feces, the mildew after rain, the odor of sweat, the putrid reek from the smoky fires all along the side of the road, the smell of the Earth; the wafting of spices being ground, the aroma of food being fried in a wok, the perfumes of women teachers going home from school, the crisp smell of cloves and tobacco, the detergents from laundered children's clothes and women's under garments hanging in the gated front gardens of houses.
I run with the sounds of children at play, cats fighting, chickens crowing, birds chirping, parents chastising, women gossiping, vendors calling out the names of their foods they will make you, the whine of motorized scooters entrusted with the lives of four-person families, the dragging bells of the becak rickshaws, the squeaking of bicycle gears and tires, the honking of cars trying to squeeze along the road with everyone else, the summons to the bule to come closer--join the squatting Indonesians and tell them my personal information, the encouraging 'ayo's from the dozing becak drivers without customers.