I wake up each day with routine. Routine, I've sorely missed.
I lie awake for a guided morning meditation, and like clockwork, at 6:20, I feel the breeze from the fan go off. A smile forms on the corners of my mouth. For a few moments after the voice in my headphones guides me out of meditation. I linger. The village generator is off, and another day begins in my Beloi homestay.
Apa brings us around the table and says grace. “Paun (bread), homestay, luku (dive),” are some of the words I recognize from Tetun lessons. He thanks god for the bread on our table, deeply appreciating the opportunity brought by the marine conservation non-profit and Homestay Association to subsidize his family's income. His home is one of those chosen in the village to host. And finally, “luku,” (dive), he asks for protection and safety for Alexei and I during our dives today.
Around Ataúro island, we are growing into ourselves as divers while practicing skills. Every day, we bring tanks to the “kit pit” and set up our BCD's (buoyancy control devices). We go through the mental checklist of all the gear we'll need as we set up, mask, fins, weight belt, BCD, clips, slate, pencil, DSMB (delayed surface marker buoy), and if we're lucky enough, a flashlight for a night dive. The amount of mental energy spent rehearsing our checklists has shrunk over the last two weeks.
“Keys, cell phone, wallet. Keys, cell phone, wallet,” the words I uttered leaving the house on the dark winter mornings just three years ago preparing for my morning commute. On the way to the subway, to my teach students in Harlem, the cold nipped at my cheeks through my scarf. Now something else altogether wakes me.
“Bangkok women are really fellas,” or... the acronym for the divers' buddy check, BWARF, B for BCD, W for weight belt, A for air, R for releases, F for fins, and all the other oddities and accessories. A backwards roll into the ocean dunks us and wakes me up better than a second cup of morning tea. Our work in the ocean begins.
The first dive of the day is the deepest. We ID fish. We write down the names of hard and soft corals. Surrounded by some of the world's most diverse marine life, I playfully swim up, then upside down, making the shape of an “O” with my body in the water. My favorite moment of stillness comes while lying on my back, looking up at the surface. The waves, the sun's rays shining through down to us and the fish, I feel in this moment closer to god.
When I got certified a year ago in the Andamans, I twirled around to look behind me up at the surface again, schools of fish swirling, a giant Napoleon stuck in the ocean's sky. His massive body weaved the glittering sun's rays in-and-out of my eyes. I squinted and sighed into the regulator, in awe. Though my childhood was never made sense of through bouts of organized religion (home life was really ruled by the principles of Confucianism more than anything), at that moment, I developed clarity and a certainty that there is almost, most definitely a higher consciousness at work in the universe. How could there not be with such beauty and majesty on earth?
And maybe, just maybe, that's why I'm here now. G-d has given me both serenity and heartaches during this moment in my timeline of travel. Volunteering for the six weeks surveying underwater marine life in Ataúro, a semi-remote island, seemed like it would be meaningful after the intangible, amiss spirituality of Bali. The country has been newly-independent since 2002, after being a Portuguese colony for over 270 years and then at odds with the Indonesian government for many years of civil upheaval afterwards. Timor-Leste is an up-and-coming tourist destination, and as such, it is susceptible to developing unsustainable models of tourism. Ecotourism can often be seen as a niche and not a norm.
Engaging with local community schools about the importance of protecting marine life, sea grass, and corals, and learning different ways of life is of importance at this moment. I am privileged and lucky.
And because I am, I am determined to work on enjoying the good moments over the bad. Instead of missing someone at night, I align my inhale and exhale to the white noise of ocean waves falling asleep. I smile and continue my practice. The 5-year old at my homestay, at first too shy to follow along on the veranda with me, stays engaged enough to watch, look, and breathe through during the majority of my asana practice. What a feat! I will remember playfully, strategically, nonchalantly asking Emu how his nap was (Toba diak?) and asking for words of random objects in Tetun. I will remember how his little body projected, “ROCKET!” a big, happy voice when he showed me the work that he most proud of in his escola workbook. I will appreciate how he counted out loud either the astronauts or the aliens (???), for me (Ida, Rua, Tolu, Haat, Lima, Nein, Hita...).
On the first night, mom and dad followed me with my own flip flops, insistent that I keep my shoes inside uma (home) because they didn't want the wild dogs to take or chew my shoes up, while they kept their own sandals outside. It's these gestures and more that show how much others want me to feel uma.
In the morning, I place my dive computer in my backpack and walk through the brush to another day of ocean “school,” to another day of diving in some of the most untouched, remarkable coral reefs of the world. I am loving the friendships and connections building without a damned cell phone always on the table, the young restaurant owner/entrepreneur coming over unannounced to chat with little Emu and I, and the dreams, of families, of a community, a country, and a traveling yogi/writer/teacher all budding.
Mehi diak!
