As we left Sumbawa behind, we were running for our lives.  These people were too nice, too happy, and too much fun.  We feared we might die of exhaustion from too much happy-happy! Just like on our trip into the port, workers on the large shipping boats stopped to call out and wave.  “Bye!  Thanks for visiting Badas!”  Two arms over their head waving and smiling.  

I reach my two arms over my head, swing them wide and yell “TERIMA KASIEH!  DA-DA!!!”  

We were in Badas for four days - just four days.  Yet, as Sonrisa’s motor chugged us along over a glassy sea I felt the ache of sadness I feel every single time we leave a port with grand adventures and new friends.  It feels like homesickness.

Dolphins join us for a stint, a combination of glassy water and good clarity magnify them.  They look like they are flying mid-air.  They roll on their sides and look up at me from one eye and squeak.  Seeing them never, ever gets old. They remind me of Indonesians.  Always happy, always playful, always singing.  

I don’t understand Indonesians.  I don’t understand how their minds and hearts work.  In my tourist level interaction, they have a spark and energy that is pure love, pure interest, pure. I don't want to idealize a whole nation; of course they have their fair share of difficult history with colonialism, corruption, violence, pollution, etc. etc. etc.  All of that is a too complicated analysis for me to engage in as an outsider just visiting.   I’m talking about the every day citizen, the village of humans that live, work, play, love and disagree with each other. 

Every single person we have met seems so happy.  They have very little in the way of material wealth, yet they will chase you down the street to invite you to their dinner, offer you coffee, or give you the shirt off their backs.  If you are waving them off saying “thank you, but I don’t need it,” you are doing it wrong.  They want to connect more than anything; they want to build a friendship.  

We anchor in a remote anchorage for the night. Remote anchorages are the perfect place for me to overthink things.  This looks as good as any remote anchorage for that!  We meet a cool-cat who just wants to hang out by the fence and chat.

Sonrisa models for yet another nice sunset picture.

I think: Why.  Why.  Why?  Why….WHY!?

I ask myself: Am I’m idealizing a group of people, each who are individuals with their own feelings, issues, happy and sad? Maybe, they are not this kind or happy deep down.  Maybe, it’s just for the four days I’m around as a tourist?  

I watch fishermen float by, framed by volcanoes gathering smoke and cloud in the distance.   One breaks out into a whistling fit; I imagine his soul is a happy yellow bird, twittering away on a vine.  A few other men gather by a fueling station to play cards, laugh, and wait for their nets to fill. 

It makes me think back to the Labuan Bajo mooring field, where, each night we would listen to the men manning all the boats sing, or break into laughter. 

No, it’s not for me. It’s not isolated, and it’s not fake.

I've watched road workers, hand stirring concrete in a hole they dug next to their project (rather than a bucket) singing and laughing with their buddy who scoops up the mixture and spreads it flat and thin.

One day, we were sitting out in Sonrisa’s cockpit watching a scuba diver decend to set mooring ball screws, then rise to the surface again to retrieve more equipment.  As he swims back and forth from his work site in the sea to the shore — he sings, while swimming, with scuba gear on.  

Ladies gather around each other in the restaurants and clothing shops, laughing and playing together.  When they meet me, they wrap their arms around me or loop their arm through my elbow like we are long time friends.

These questions have been plaguing me for a while, especially when life here is juxtaposed with my American friends' Facebook feeds that tend to include entertaining and funny MEMEs depicting the difficulty with which they juggle jobs, marriage, kids, laundry, groceries, self-care, spiritual, political, social lives, etc.  I follow some Indonesian friends on Facebook, too.  Their feeds never look like that, even though they have jobs, kids, plans and busy lives, too.

Are they just born this way?

I’ve watched moms with infants.  Are the infants less angry than the infants I know at home?  No, they cry when they are hungry or hot, tired, messy, or just annoyed.  They are infants; like all infants.

Are their childhoods different?

Definitely.  They run around in pods of children.  Six year old brothers reaching their hand backward to let their three year old brother grab hold.  They poke around in shops, looking with wide eyes.  They sit on their mother’s laps.  They cry when their Dads leave them behind.  They don’t play organized sports, but they play volleyball or soccer in open fields.  They “play karate” on the beach and set up obstacle courses on three story construction sites without guard rails.  Their environments are 4,000% less safe than environments for children in America.  They go to school wearing uniforms.  Some girls wear their hijab, and they hold hands in gaggles with girls with bare hair.  

Is all this better?  Does it make them happy?  I don't know.  It's different, though.

As children, they all learn the song our tour guide sang to us on New Year’s Eve, and the song Andrew requested from our New Year DJ.  Hati Senang:

This is translated:

What does any of this have to do with a collective social happiness?  Does it have anything to do with it?  I have no idea.  We have childhood songs about happiness, too.  “If you’re happy and you know it clap your hands!”  Clap Clap!  They sing this one in Indonesia, too.  They always clap with vigor.  

 I feel lucky to be in their joyful presence, I'm not sure I ever want to leave.  It renews my faith that humanity will continue to spin despite what sometimes seems to be a collective rage and disrespect toward each other.  

I want to know how do they build their hearts this way?

We read and hear inspirational people say all the time: “happiness is not something you get, you make it yourself.”  As a person who is often anxious, I grumble, “yeah, yeah, great!  How do you make it yourself?”  

I don’t know.   I don’t even think Indonesians know.  They learned the art so long ago, it’s second nature.  

Not long hereafter, I found myself at an enjoyable beachside bar.  New sailing friends gather with new Indonesian friends over several rounds of pool.  “Good luck!”  Our Indonesian friend chortles and laughs; he knows he’s the ringer.  

“How do you say ‘lucky’ in Bahasa,”  I ask.

He throws his hands in the air, pool stick swinging wildly.  “Beruntung!”  As he says this, Andrew whiffs and misses the cue ball entire.  We all laugh.

“How do you say ‘unlucky’?”  I ask.

Our friend scowls, “Oh, yeah. We don’t really have a word for that.”

I can think back on countless conversations in which our Indonesian friends spoke exemplary words on happiness and gratitude.

 "My wife is in Indonesia, I'm working here in Malaysia.  But I’m lucky.  Because now I know what it feel like to miss someone.  You guys, you are together all the time.  You don't know what it feels like to miss someone.”

“If I have one dollar, and it's enough to feed my family I am happy.  I don't care to compete with you.  If you have a Lambrogini, I am happy for you.  I don't want one, because I don't need it.  If you need it, and you have one.  I'm happy for you.  There are just so many people who work to make money to buy a Lambrogini to say "I'm better than you, look at my Lambrogini."  Nah, I don't care about that.  I don't want to work for that.”

Indonesian friend, while stretching his arms in either direction:  “Look at us!  Yesterday, I didn't know you at all.  You came to my restaurant and you were my customers.  Tonight you are my friends.  By the end of the week, you will be my family.”  

Wandering the streets of Malaysia, "Hello Mister! Can we have a picture?"  Sure.  We pause to pose with the line of people sitting, waiting for their tourist bus.  One girl with jet black hair, bright red lips and perfect beauty looks up at Andrew with doe eyes, "You are just so handsome!"  She says, the sound of a swoon in her voice.  "And you are so pretty!"  She says to me, as she loops her arm through my arm and tilts her head toward me for our picture.

When we are finished, "Where are you from?"  They ask. "America!"  We tell them,  "Where are you from?"  

"Sumatra!"  They tell us.  Of course.  They are Indonesians.  

Our taxi driver in Bali: “If we have enough money to make our offerings, we are happy.”  

Happiness cannot be defined as a continuous state of satisfaction. My Indonesian friends, they all have their worries and troubles. No doubt. And I don’t know what any of this means except to say there is something beautiful and important to be learned from my Indonesian friends. They have changed me forever for the better, and I leave this country with nothing but absolute love in my heart for my friends. In times when I feel myself getting low, I will try to think more like them the best that I can.