Every journey begins with a story, and mine starts not with a single step, but with a single wave—rippling outward from a childhood spent collecting shells and wondering what lay beyond the horizon. That curiosity has finally found its anchor in the Sea-Teacher Program, where my path meets the tide of classrooms without walls, lessons without borders, and students who, like the ocean, are deep, vast, and full of hidden treasures. This blog is my logbook—a place to chart the currents of culture, connection, and discovery as I trade a traditional classroom for the salt-sprayed magic of teaching by the sea. Welcome aboard.
I’m Nikki Diez Tagbak, 23 years old, and currently navigating one of the most exciting (and yes, slightly exhausting) chapters of my life—being a graduating student of BSED-Science at Southern Leyte State University - Tomas Oppus Campus.
Then it was Ma'am Leslie's turn, and she brought a completely different energy. Where Pak Choi was calm and philosophical, Ma'am Leslie was sharp and practical. She shared stories from her own years in the classroom, the little failures and unexpected wins that make up a teacher's real life and what a situational leadership should be like. She talked about adapting to different learning environments, especially when you're a stranger in a new culture. I felt like she was speaking directly to the five of us. At one point, she made eye contact with our little group and smiled slightly—like she knew exactly what we were going through, the quiet uncertainty of being newcomers in a place that already felt like home but wasn't quite yet.
The seminar ended just before noon, and we had just enough time to breathe before the next part of the day began. We met Pak Buyun outside the seminar hall—a soft-spoken man with kind eyes and a patient smile. He would be our guide for the afternoon trip to Maharani Zoo. I'll admit, I wasn't sure what to expect. A zoo is a zoo, right? But Maharani Zoo turned out to be something different. It wasn't one of those massive, commercial zoos you see in big cities. It felt more personal, more grounded. The pathways were shaded by trees, and the enclosures were spacious enough that the animals didn't seem restless. We saw deer that came close to the fence, birds with feathers so blue they looked painted, and a sleepy white tiger that didn't move an inch the entire time we watched it.
There was a room set up, chairs arranged in neat rows, and students inside the room waiting for us—something I'm still not quite used to seeing. The students performed traditional dance, with live singers and their voices steady and proud.
But the day wasn't over. The afternoon brought a different kind of weight, one that had been hanging over us since we arrived. Tonight was Ma'am Leslie's farewell dinner. She had been with us since the beginning. And now, just as we were finding our footing, she was leaving. The dinner was held at a small restaurant in Lamongan, Serena Rasa. UNISDA prepared this dinner for her.
Another day of observation. 
We returned to SMK NU 1 Karanggeneng, the same school as yesterday, but this time we observed different classes and different teachers. I joined the class of my cooperating teacher, her name was Ibu Ani. It was a class where all the students were presenting their projects and crafts. It was a whole new kind of experience since they were presenting something that was not usual in my field.
I wasn't sure what to expect. SMK NU 1 Karanggeneng and MA Matholi'ul Anwar—were very much open, but the atmosphere was different from the previous observation days. On Kartini Day, that respect felt especially meaningful. We had the chance to speak in front of all the students before the classes started. And Ma'am Mary delivered a speech. We also wore our Filipiana outfits as the students and teachers wore their traditional outfits.
We split up again for observations, same routine and same classes. In the afternoon, we returned to the homestay earlier than usual because both schools ended their sessions a bit early for Kartini-related activities. We used the extra time to sit together and plan for our own teaching.
Two more days of observation.
Their names were Mas Irafn (our buddy), Mas Bagas, and Mbak Belgis. They had completed their sea teacher deployment. They greeted us warmly and shook our hands.
Then Bu Elise, the warm and watchful teacher from Mawar—arrived with a worried look on her face. She had heard from Bu Irma that there was a change in plans. The cultural immersion was cancelled. I felt a wave of relief followed immediately by a wave of guilt. Cancelled because of me? No, that couldn't be right. Bu Irma was also going to another hospital, for reasons no one explained fully. It seemed like a convergence of bad timing—two separate issues colliding at once. But still, I couldn't shake the feeling that my body had something to do with the morning's unraveling.
WBL was bigger than I expected. Much bigger. It sprawled along the shore with a mix of water slides and amusement rides. There were families everywhere—children running barefoot, parents carrying children, teenagers posing for photos in front of giant shark statues. The air was loud with laughter and splash and the distant shrieks of people dropping down steep slides. I stood at the entrance with my four friends and felt something loosen in my chest. This was what we had been missing. Not teaching, not observing, not lesson plans. Just fun. Just being five young people in a beautiful place with nothing to do except enjoy it.
We started with the horror booth because that seemed like the right place to begin. We rode the crazy rides. Between rides, we ate. My arm held up. I had been worried that the water or the movement or the general chaos would aggravate the infection, but the waterproof cover stayed on, the antibiotics had done their job, and by some small miracle, I felt fine. Better than fine. I felt free.
Today felt like the first real day of the rest of our journey. No more observation notebooks. No more sitting at the back of the classroom, watching from a distance. Today, we stepped into the role we had been preparing for—not as lead teachers yet, but as assistants. Assistantship. The word itself sounds humble, almost small. But there was nothing small about how it felt to stand beside a teacher in front of a room full of students, even if all I did was nod encouragingly from the corner.
In SMP Negeri 1 Lamongan the students were younger—twelve to fourteen years old, mostly—and they moved through the hallways in chattering clusters, their voices higher and more restless than the vocational students we had grown used to. When we arrived, there were students who welcomed us, the teachers greeted us personally, and Pak Anam, who was the school's former head master for many years.
Another day of assistantship. But today felt different from yesterday—not because the tasks were harder or the students were different, but because something had shifted inside me.
These are the moments that don't make it into lesson plans. The unexpected breakthroughs. The quiet students who just need someone to notice them. Every day, this country teaches me that teaching is not about delivering content. It is about seeing people. Really seeing them. And then helping them see themselves.
Today was the day we had been building toward since we first arrived in Lamongan. Not teaching our own lessons yet—that would come soon—but something almost as significant. Demonstration morning. The moment when we would step out of the assistantship shadow and show the teachers, the coordinators, and ourselves what we had learned. Five sea teachers, five short lessons, five chances to prove that the past two weeks of observation and assisting had prepared us for this.
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The morning had been intense, emotional, and deeply satisfying. But the day was not over. In the afternoon, we had another visit scheduled: MAN 1 Lamongan. A madrasah aliyah negeri—a public Islamic senior high school. We had heard about MAN 1 from some of the other sea teachers. It had a reputation for academic excellence and strong discipline. The students wore neat uniforms, the girls in hijab, the boys in button-up shirts and dark pants. The campus was clean and orderly, with flowering plants along the pathways and the call of students reciting Quranic verses filtering through the windows.
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Irfan had been assigned to us on our very first day at UNISDA. He was a student there, humble and quiet, with a gentle smile and a habit of pushing his glasses up his nose whenever he was thinking. Over the past two weeks, he had helped us navigate the place, translated when our Indonesian failed, and quietly made sure we always knew where to go. But I had never seen him in his element—as a student, sitting in a classroom, learning alongside his peers. Today, I would.
We met at the homestay just after eight. He was wearing his student uniform and he looked different somehow. More serious. More focused. He greeted me with his usual quiet warmth and then led me to his motorbike which will be our ride to UNISDA.
Irfan was an English student, and his first class of the day was with Bu Anita. I followed him into a classroom that looked more like a conference room. Irfan led me to an empty seat near the front. "You don't have to understand everything," he whispered. "Just watch."
And watch I did. The lecturer, a woman with a soft voice, spent the first half hour explaining the principles of EduPrenuership, using diagrams on the presented slides.
After the class, Irfan gave me a tour of the science department, where Bu Irma met me briefly. Teachers greeted me and prepared a small talk in a classroom. I saw students and interacted with them.
Mary Mae. One of the five of us. Is one of the speakers today. Now, sitting in the audience as the seminar began, I realized that Mary Mae had been quietly preparing for this all along. I watched her from my seat near the back, sitting in the row of speakers, her laptop open in front of her, her hands folded neatly on the table. Then it was Mary Mae's turn.
The drive to Malang took about three hours. I spent most of it with my face pressed against the window, watching the landscape transform. The flat fields of Lamongan gave way to rolling hills, then steeper slopes, then mountains shrouded in mist. The air changed too—from the thick, wet heat of the coast to something cooler and crisper, like the first breath of autumn after a long summer. By the time we reached Pujon, a district in the highlands of Malang, I watched by window how the view changed.
Our destination was Florawisata Santerra, a flower garden and amusement park nestled in the hills of Pujon. The name itself was a promise: flora for the flowers, wisata for tourism, Santerra rolling off the tongue like a song. When we pulled into the parking lot and stepped out of the van, I understood immediately why we had come all this way. The place was breathtaking. Rows upon rows of flowers—roses, lavender, marigolds, bougainvillea—cascaded down terraced hillsides in explosions of pink, purple, yellow, and red. In the distance, Mount Arjuna rose against the sky, its peak hidden in clouds. And scattered throughout the gardens were rides. Not the kind you find at a county fair, but whimsical, almost dreamlike attractions: a Ferris wheel painted in pastel colors.
We found the rides. The Tower Drop was our first stop. Intense right from the first. Next was the Ferris Wheel, not because it was the most exciting, but because it offered the best view. We climbed into a pastel pink gondola. From the top, we could see everything: the flower terraces, the winding paths, the distant farms and villages, the mountains on the horizon, and the sky, impossibly blue and wide. "This is worth every minute of the drive," someone said. No one disagreed.
The drive back to Lamongan was quiet in a different way. We were tired—the good kind of tired, the kind that comes from a day spent outdoors, from walking and laughing and breathing fresh air. The sun set behind the mountains as we descended from the highlands, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink and purple. I watched the light fade and thought about how fast these sixteen days had passed. How we had arrived as strangers and somehow, impossibly, become people who share inside jokes and food and silences that don't need to be filled.
We walked through the streets of Karanggeneng as the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. And stopped at the bus stop, waited for the TransJatim to pass and rode it.
When Bu Irma arrived, we went to stores to check if we wanted to buy something then, we went to the favorite place Pak Anam and Bu Irma usually spend their Saturday night together. They ordered food for us and juice and after we chatted and ate, we went to her home.
We met Bu Irma outside of her house at 3:30 AM. She was already there, of course, waiting by the side of the car with a bag of small pastries she must have bought the night before. She looked fresh, almost energetic, which seemed unfair given the hour.
The rest of the morning and early afternoon were spent at Surabaya, walking, exploring, and taking phtos. We had planned to return to Lamongan in the afternoon.
Three days. Three lessons. Three chances to prove that the past three weeks of observation, assistantship, and preparation had not been in vain. The demo days had finally arrived—the moment we had been simultaneously craving and dreading since we first set foot in Lamongan. And at the center of it all, watching, evaluating, and holding a clipboard that felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, was Pak Buyun.
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The man who had guided us through Maharani Zoo on that early afternoon, who had pointed out camels and monkeys and shared fried snacks with us on a wooden bench, was now our assessor. The kind-eyed, soft-spoken Pak Buyun had transformed into something more formidable: the man with the rating sheet. And on the first day, I was one of the first to go.
I woke up with a weight on my chest that had nothing to do with the humidity. My stomach churned as I brushed my teeth. My hands trembled slightly as I buttoned my blouse. The five of us moved around the homestay in a fog of mutual anxiety, none of us saying much, all of us feeling the enormity of the day ahead.
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After the first observation, Pak Buyun arrived ten minutes before the bell to observe my class. He walked in quietly, nodded at me, and took a seat in the back corner—the observer's seat, the one I had occupied so many times before. He opened his clipboard, clicked his pen, and looked at me with an expression that was neither encouraging nor discouraging. It was, I realized, the expression of someone who was waiting to see what I would do. Not judging yet. Just watching. Just waiting.
The walk to the classroom felt different. Heavier. The hallway that had become so familiar, all of it seemed to glow with a light I hadn't noticed before. I passed students who nodded at me, called out "Good morning, Miss!" and I realized with a start that I might never see them again. Not these particular students. Not in this particular hallway. The thought sat in my chest like a stone.
The classroom was different.
EDSA, an organization of UNISDA, was waiting for us at the university. They prepared an event where in we will play games from them and from us. A form of exchange of culture but through playing.
By the end of the afternoon, I was covered in dust and sweat, my hair a mess. But I was also laughing. Really laughing. The kind of laughter that comes from deep in the belly, that leaves you gasping for air, that makes you forget everything except the joy of the moment.
Day 22. I am not the same person who arrived at Juanda airport twenty-two days ago. That person was nervous, uncertain, afraid of skin infections and failed lessons and not being good enough. This person—the one writing these words is different. She is stronger. She is braver. She is more broken and more whole all at once.
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Last night I prepared for another demo, as per what Bu Irma instructed us days ago that we will have another teaching experience but in another school. "Would you be willing to do one more demo?" she asked. "At MAN 1 Lamongan. They heard about your demonstration and requested you all. But there's a catch. They want you to teach biology, physics or chemistry, it's up to you. Not social science. Not English. But Science."
The classroom was large and bright, with windows that faced a garden full of plants. Thirty students sat in neat rows, their uniforms crisp, their eyes curious. At the back of the room, the science teacher and an English teacher were there ready to observe and help me with the translation. I took a deep breath, set down my materials, and looked at the students.
We gathered in the same room where we were welcomed, surrounded by teachers, students, and our supervising mentors. The headmaster gave a short, heartfelt speech about how we’d grown from nervous trainees into confident educators. Bu Irma also gave her speech. Then, it was Ivan's turn to share his reflections. It was as grand as the deployment ceremony we had. They prepared performances that we enjoyed watching. We savored every moment because this will be the last time we will ever see them again. Tokens have been exchanged and photos were taken.
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When we arrived at SMK, it was different from MAWAR. Our culmination was intimate and was attended by teachers only. We sat in front and it was nice to see their faces for the last time. The headmaster delivered his speech which was a heartfelt one. Bu Irma also delivered her speech. And our leader, Mary Mae delivered our appreciation speech for the school. They gave us tokens and we took photos together.
The town square was already alive when we arrived. The sun was still low, casting long shadows across the open field, but dozens of people had already gathered. Groups of women in colorful athletic wear stretched in unison, led by an instructor with a microphone. Old men walked briskly around the perimeter, their hands clasped behind their backs. Children chased each other between the trees, their laughter sharp and bright in the morning air. And in the center of it all, a large group was already jogging in a loose circle, their feet pounding the ground in a rhythm that matched my heartbeat.
We dressed carefully, the five of us, in our best clothes. Wearing our national custome.
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UNISDA's event hall was packed when we arrived. Teachers, students, coordinators gathered to honor Batch 11—us—and to say their own goodbyes.
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We were seated in the front row, the five of us, directly facing the stage. Behind us, I could hear the whispers of students, the laughter of teachers.
It was our turn to dance Tiklos, which is a traditional dance that symbolizes bayanihan. After that, we sang Pinoy Ako. Proudly.
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I went up to the stage as soon as my name was called. I delivered my speech and surprisingly, I did not cry. I finished my speech and walked back to my chair, feeling relieved that I said thank you to all the people that needs to hear our gratitude.
Then, we performed our last song, the theme song of our batch, all because of Pak Buyun, Alamak. It was a nerve-racking performance since we are very careful on how to pronounce the words correctly. But we survived and saw Pak Buyun smiling at us and singing with us.
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After the performances, we received our final certificates. Not the ones from the school, but official certificates from UNISDA, recognizing our completion of the sea teacher program. We shook hands with the officials, posed for a thousand photos, and accepted tokens from the school..jpeg)
The farewell program ended around noon, but the day was only half over. In the afternoon, UNISDA hosted an international forum with a weighty and urgent title: "Gen Z Against War". The forum brought together students from UNISDA, representatives from local youth organizations, and the five of us—sea teachers from different countries, different backgrounds, different perspectives. One of us was a participant and a speaker.
The discussion was moderated by a student from UNISDA. Speakers began presenting their speeches.
The forum lasted two more hours. We talked about practical solutions—education, dialogue, youth leadership, the power of storytelling. We didn't solve anything, not really. But we listened to each other. We respected each other. We left the room different than we had entered. And maybe, I thought, that was enough. Maybe that was everything.
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After dinner, we sat in the living room. The room was empty now, stripped of our belongings, ready for the next batch of sea teachers who would arrive in years. But for tonight, it was still ours.
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We talked for hours. About everything. About nothing. About all of it.
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I waved. And then I walked towards the bench sobbing.
Between lesson plans, laboratory reports, and the beautiful chaos of becoming a future educator, I’ve learned that passion and persistence go hand in hand. Science isn’t just about formulas and facts—it’s about curiosity, discovery, and the magic of asking “why.” And as someone who dreams of lighting that same spark in young minds, I’m here to share snippets of my journey: the highs, the lows, the lessons inside the classroom and beyond.
This year has been extra special because I had the incredible opportunity to be part of the SEA-Teacher Batch 11 Program—a transformative journey that ran from April 15 to May 15, 2026. I traveled to Indonesia, Lamongan and was hosted by UNISDA (Universitas Islam Darul 'Ulum) , the partner school of SLSU-Tomas Oppus Campus.
For one month, I stepped into a different world of classrooms, culture, and teaching practices—observing, assisting, and even leading science lessons in a foreign setting. It was more than just an exchange program; it was where my love for teaching met the beauty of diversity, and where I realized that a teacher's heart speaks the same language anywhere in the world.
During my stay in Indonesia, our batch was assigned to two different senior high schools by UNISDA: SMK NU 1 Karanggeneng and MA Matholi'ul Anwar. I was placed at SMK NU 1 Karanggeneng in Lamongan—a vocational senior high school.
SMK NU 1 Karanggeneng is a vocational senior high school located on Jalan Raya Simo Sungelebak in Karanggeneng, Lamongan, East Java headed by Mohammad Fatihun Naim Zaki, M.Pd. Founded on July 1, 1986, it holds a significant place in Indonesian educational history as the very first vocational high school established within a pesantren (Islamic boarding school) environment in Lamongan, as well as the first SMK under the Nahdlatul Ulama Ma'arif Education Institution . The school was pioneered by Drs. KH. Masykuri Shodiq, SH, and Drs. H. Miftahul Huda, SH, MM, who envisioned a vocational school that would equip students with industry-ready skills while keeping them grounded in Islamic values following Ahlussunnah wal Jama'ah . Today, the school holds an "A" accreditation and offers seven competency programs: Automotive Light Vehicle Engineering (TKR), Motorcycle Engineering (TSM), Computer and Network Engineering (TKJ), Visual Communication Design (DKV), Accounting, Banking Services, and Digital Business . The school has also forged industry partnerships, including becoming a Yamaha-partnered school for its Motorcycle Engineering program, ensuring students learn using industry-standard curricula . With a vision to develop human resources who are "Intelligent, Competent, Religious, and of Noble Character," SMK NU 1 Karanggeneng balances academic excellence, practical skills, and spiritual formation . It was truly an honor to be placed in such a dynamic and values-driven school during my SEA Teacher journey.
Walking into that school as a future science teacher from the Philippines was both nerve-wracking and exhilarating. The students were eager, the teachers were welcoming, and every day brought something new. From adapting my lesson plans to suit a vocational curriculum to finding creative ways to connect with learners who spoke a different first language, the experience pushed me to grow in ways I never imagined.
While I was placed at SMK NU 1 Karanggeneng, the other two SEA Teacher fellows were assigned to MA Matholi'ul Anwar—a Madrasah Aliyah (Islamic senior high school) located on Jalan Raya Simo Sungelebak in Karanggeneng, Lamongan, East Java . Founded in 1969 by K.H. Soefyan Abdul Wahab, the school is situated within the environment of the Matholi'ul Anwar Islamic boarding school (pesantren), creating a unique educational ecosystem where academic learning and religious formation go hand in hand . The school holds an "A" accreditation and currently serves over 1,300 students across 39 classrooms, offering specialized tracks in IPA (Science), IPS (Social Studies), and MAK (Vocational) . What makes this school remarkable is its diverse range of excellence programs—students can choose from Tahfidzul Qur'an (Qur'an memorization), Olympiad & Research, Islamic Studies, as well as vocational skills like Multimedia, Information Technology, Industrial Electronics, Motorcycle Business, Fashion Design, and Culinary Arts . Under the leadership of Headmaster Dr. H. Abdullah Faqih, S.Ag., M.Ag, the school has consistently produced outstanding achievements, most recently sending 54 students to pass the National Selection for University Admission (SNBP) in 2026, ranking 7th among all NU-based schools in Indonesia. With its vision of being "Excellent, Religious, and Competitive," MA Matholi'ul Anwar proves that Islamic education can produce graduates who are not only strong in faith but also academically superior and professionally skilled . It's no wonder that this institution continues to shine as a beacon of holistic education in Lamongan.
The moment I stepped into SMK NU 1 Karanggeneng, I knew I was somewhere special. As an observer from the Philippines opened my eyes to how different—and sometimes surprisingly similar—education can be across borders. One of the most striking differences I noticed was the integration of Islamic values into every aspect of daily school life. In the Philippines, while values education is taught as a subject and public schools remain secular, Indonesia's vocational school seamlessly wove prayer breaks, religious greetings, and moral lessons grounded in Islamic teachings into the academic flow. Every morning began with a group prayer, and the school mosque was never empty. Another major difference was the school schedule and workload. At SMK NU 1 Karanggeneng, the school day started bright and early at 6:30 AM with morning assembly or prayer, followed by formal classes that ran until 3:30 PM or even 4:00 PM in the afternoon, depending on the competency program. Some vocational classes, especially practicum sessions in automotive or computer labs, extended further. Students typically had a short break for Dhuha prayer in the mid-morning, a longer lunch and Dzuhur prayer break around noon, and occasionally additional religious activities before dismissal. In total, Indonesian students spent roughly 8 to 9 hours in school daily, Monday through Saturday. In contrast, Philippine public senior high schools usually start between 7:00 AM to 8:00 AM and end between 4:00 PM to 5:00 PM, but only from Monday to Friday, with Saturday reserved for make-up classes or extracurricular activities. The total hours are somewhat comparable, but the earlier start in Indonesia and the inclusion of Saturday classes took some getting used to. I also observed that Indonesian students had more structured prayer breaks integrated into the schedule, while Philippine schools have recess and lunch breaks that are non-religious in nature. On the other hand, similarities warmed my heart: teachers juggling multiple roles, students laughing during breaks, and the universal struggle of catching the attention of sleepy teens during the first period. Both systems value discipline, respect for teachers, and the dream of preparing students for the real world. But if I had to name one thing I'd love to bring home, it's the beautiful way Indonesian schools turn religious and moral formation into a living, breathing part of every school day—not just a subject on a schedule.
After soaking in everything I could during the observation phase, it was finally time to roll up my sleeves and step into the assistantship phase—a period where I moved from being a silent witness to an active participant in the classroom. This phase was my bridge between watching and teaching, and honestly, it was both thrilling and nerve-wracking.
One of the most unexpected yet rewarding experiences during my SEA Teacher journey was my assistantship phase in a class that was completely outside my field. While I am a Science major—trained to analyze experiments, memorize formulas, and explain the laws of nature—I found myself assisting my cooperating teacher in a Social Science class. No lab equipment. No periodic table. No scientific method. Instead, there were discussions about society, culture, history, and human behavior. At first, I felt like a fish out of water. I kept asking myself, "What can a science student possibly contribute here?" But my cooperating teacher, with her warm smile and patient guidance, assured me that teaching is teaching—and that my presence alone was a form of support. During this phase, the students were busy presenting their crafts and foods—creative outputs that ranged DIY projects to foods like desserts and juice and to flower bouquets. My role was to assist the teacher in managing the flow of presentations, ensuring that each group was ready, helping arrange the displays, and sometimes jotting down notes as students explained their work, not to mention also tasting their recipes. This experience taught me something profound: a teacher's role transcends subject matter. Whether it's Science or Social Science, our true job is to create a safe space where students can express themselves, showcase their hard work, and grow in confidence. I may not have known much about Indonesian social structures or the history of Lamongan, but I knew how to listen, how to encourage, and how to show up. And sometimes, that's exactly what a classroom needs—a teacher who may not have all the answers but is willing to learn right alongside the students. Stepping into that Social Science class didn't make me less of a science teacher; it made me more of a complete educator.
After weeks of observing and assisting, the moment I had both anticipated and dreaded finally arrived—the demonstration phase. This was it. The time to step out from behind my cooperating teacher's shadow and take full control of the classroom.
For my demonstration lesson, I was assigned to teach the topic of Creative Economy—a subject that, like my assistantship, was once again outside my Science comfort zone. But this time, there was no safety net. I had to plan the lesson, prepare the materials, deliver the discussion, manage student engagement, and assess learning—all while being formally evaluated.
And to raise the stakes even higher, Pak Buyun—the English Program Head from UNISDA—was present on my very first day of demonstration to rate my performance as part of the program agreement. I could feel my heartbeat in my ears as I stood in front of the class. The students looked at me with a mix of excitement and curiosity, while Pak Buyun sat quietly at the back, clipboard in hand, observing every move I made and helping me in translating English to Bahasa Indonesia. I took a deep breath and began. I introduced the concept of creative economy—how creativity, culture, and innovation can generate economic value. I used examples familiar to my students, like local handicrafts, digital content creation, and culinary arts from both Indonesia and the Philippines.
But what truly made my demonstration class unique was the integration of games (CHARADES)—something the students were not used to. In my observations, I noticed that classes at SMK NU 1 Karanggeneng were typically teacher-centered, with lectures, note-taking, and individual seatwork being the norm. So I decided to take a small risk and introduce a creative economy game called "Creative Economy Charades." I divided the class into two groups, gave each group cups, and asked to act the words about the lesson. For every correct answer, the group earned points. The energy in the room instantly shifted. Students who were usually quiet suddenly leaned forward, whispering answers to their teammates. There was laughter, friendly competition, and even a few dramatic gasps when a group lost points for a wrong answer. The game wasn't just fun—it was a powerful learning tool. It reinforced concepts, encouraged collaboration, and made the students active participants rather than passive listeners. After the class, my cooperating teacher admitted with a smile, "We don't usually do games here. But seeing how engaged they were... I think I should try this more often." Pak Buyun also noted in his evaluation that my use of gamification was innovative and effective. That small moment of bringing play into the classroom reminded me why I fell in love with teaching in the first place—learning doesn't have to be serious to be meaningful. Sometimes, a little fun is exactly what opens the door to understanding.
When I finally said "Terima kasih" and glanced at the back of the room, Pak Buyun gave me a subtle nod and a small smile. Later, during our feedback session, he praised my preparation, classroom management, creativity in using games, and ability to connect with students despite the language and subject matter challenges. Overall, he said I had shown growth and promise as a future educator. That first demonstration day taught me that teaching is not about being perfect. It's about being prepared, being present, and being brave enough to try something different. Pak Buyun's presence didn't intimidate me in the end—it pushed me to give my very best. And for that, I am truly grateful.
After surviving my first demonstration day with Pak Buyun watching my every move, I braced myself for the remaining three days of teaching the Creative Economy topic. The pressure had lessened—Pak Buyun had completed his formal evaluation, so the next days were about me, my students, and the pure joy of teaching without a clipboard in sight. But that didn't mean I took it easy. If anything, I wanted to prove that my first day wasn't just luck. Over those three days, I watched my students transform from passive listeners to active thinkers. They laughed, they argued, they collaborated, and they grew. More importantly, I grew too. I learned how to adjust my pace when a concept wasn't landing, how to use humor to wake up a sleepy class, and how to say "I don't know, but let's find out together" without feeling embarrassed. By the end of Day Four, I didn't want to leave. My students gave me small drawings, handwritten notes, and even a traditional Indonesian batik as a goodbye gift. One girl hugged me tightly and whispered, "Miss Nikki, please don't forget us." How could I? They had given me something far greater than any certificate or evaluation score—they had given me the confidence to call myself a teacher. Not a future teacher. Not a student teacher. Just teacher. And that is a title I will carry with me, from the classrooms of Lamongan all the way back home to Southern Leyte.
Looking back at my SEA Teacher journey, I realize that I left for Indonesia thinking I would teach—but I came home having learned so much more. I learned that a classroom doesn't need four walls to be a school; it needs hearts willing to listen and minds eager to grow. I learned that teaching is not about perfect lesson plans or being an expert in your field—it's about showing up, trying your best, and laughing with your students when things don't go as planned. I stepped into SMK NU 1 Karanggeneng as a stranger from a small town in Southern Leyte, but I left as family. The teachers who welcomed me with warm smiles taught me that hospitality has no language barrier. This experience didn't just make me a better teacher—it made me a better person. More patient. More grateful. More aware that the world is big, but the teaching community is small and kind. To anyone reading this who dreams of stepping out of their comfort zone: do it. Go to that unfamiliar place. Teach that unfamiliar subject. Play that game in class even if no one else does. Because somewhere on the other side of fear is a version of you that you haven't met yet—braver, stronger, and ready to make a difference.
That, in essence, is how the journey began. But a beginning only matters for what follows. So let me set aside the metaphors for a moment and turn to the simple, honest truth of each day—because Lamongan wasn't just a story I arrived with. It was a story I lived, morning by morning, class by class, wave by wave.
Day 0: Three Flights, Two Nights, One Dream
On April 15, 2026, the world was still wrapped in a drowsy, pre-dawn gray when my alarm pulled me out of a half-dream. Outside the window of our small house in Tomas Oppus, Southern Leyte, the roosters were already making their presence known. Today was the day. Not a single breakfast tasted normal; every bite felt like a pre-flight ritual, chewed slowly as if to delay the inevitable chaos of a long-haul journey. My backpack sat by the door, zippers double-checked, passport tucked into its secret compartment like a holy relic.
By 6:00 AM, we were already arriving at the school campus, putting our bags inside the van that would take us to Tacloban and saying our final goodbyes. This was it—the first real step of a journey that would take us from the quiet, sleepy heart of Southern Leyte all the way to Indonesia.
We pulled away from home at exactly 6:45 AM, the van's engine groaning as it climbed the first hill out of town. I watched our house shrink in the rearview mirror until it was just a speck of familiar blue swallowed by coconut trees and morning mist.
The road to Tacloban is never a straight line; it curves through mountains, skirts past rice paddies still glistening with dew, and occasionally offers a sudden, breathtaking view of the Pacific. Everything sent a little bit of homesickness to me. The driver played a local radio station that faded in and out of static. Every little town we passed—Sogod, Liloan, Mahaplag—felt like a farewell wave.
By 10:00 AM, the outskirts of Tacloban appeared: the familiar traffic, the rebuilt structures still standing proud after Yolanda, and the giant billboards welcoming us to the city. Three hours of winding roads, and we had finally arrived. We had about three hours to kill before our 1:35 PM flight to Manila, so we first headed to Jollibee and grabbed food for lunch. And after that, we went immediately to the airport and bid goodbye to the driver who drove us from Tomas Oppus to Tacloban.
The Daniel Z. Romualdez Airport in Tacloban was busier than I expected. After all of the processes were done like the payment of the travel taxes, the weighing of our luggage and the claiming of our tickets, we found seats near the pre-departure area, planted our bags, and ate our lunch. The air inside was quite cold but bearable, filled with the sound of rolling suitcases and the occasional flight announcement in a calm, robotic voice. Outside, through the glass doors, I could see the blue sky promising good weather. It felt unreal—like we were in a waiting room between two lives: the one we were leaving behind and the one waiting for us across the seas.
The first leg of our flight was the shortest but emotionally the strangest. As the Philippine Airline plane lifted off from Tacloban, I looked at the small oval window and watched the island shrink below—the patchwork green of rice terraces, the silver thread of rivers, the dark blue fringe of the Pacific. Goodbye, Visayas. Goodbye, home.
The flight was uneventful in the best way: no turbulence. By 2:55 PM, we were touching down in Manila, and the real chaos began.
Ninoy Aquino International Airport (NAIA) Terminal 1 welcomed us with its usual aggressive air conditioning and a stampede of passengers rushing toward baggage claim. We had five hours until our 7:45 PM flight to Singapore, so we roam around to find a spot and prepared everything before passing the immigration.
The hours between 3:00 PM and 7:45 PM felt like a strange purgatory. We wandered through the terminal like ghosts, watching families reunite, OFWs lugging balikbayan boxes, and travelers from all over the world trying to find their gates. We located a spot close to a charging station, had our dinner there while our phones were charging.
By 7:00 PM, we were lined up at the gate, exhaustion beginning to settle into my bones like a slow tide. The flight to Singapore was announced on time—7:45 PM departure. I sent one last message to my mother and she replied with a heart emoji and a photo of our dog looking confused in the empty house. That image stayed with me as the plane began to taxi down the runway, the lights of Manila blurring into golden streaks below.
Singapore welcomed us like a futuristic dream. Changi Airport at midnight is still cleaner than any place I’ve ever been: the floors gleam, the air smells like orchids, and the silence is punctuated only by the soft hum of escalators and the occasional boarding announcement in English, Mandarin, and Malay.
We had a long layover—about eight hours—until our 7:50 AM flight to Surabaya. Neither of us slept well. We roam around and went to the floral garden which captured my heart as a girl who loves orchids.
After so many pictures and videos taken, we found a round table with chairs and charging ports, lay down like exhausted refugees, and stared at the ceiling until we fell asleep. This airport was incredibly cold for my liking that sent me to shivers even though I was wearing a jacket. After just a few hours of sleep, we woke up and find some place to eat. We stumbled upon McDonalds and ordered food making sure our money is enough for us to be full.
And by 7:00 AM, we were back at the gate, passports ready, yawning, and buzzing with a strange mix of exhaustion and excitement.
Now, the final flight. This one was short—only about two hours—but it felt like the longest because of how close we were to the end. The plane was full of Indonesian families, and a few backpackers like us with tangled hair and crumpled shirts. I closed my eyes and thought about Southern Leyte, about the roosters at dawn, about the sticky rice I left on the kitchen counter, my family, my son and my partner. Then I opened them as the pilot announced our descent.
When the wheels touched down at Juanda International Airport at exactly 9:10 AM, I felt something shift inside me. Not a dramatic click, but a quiet, certain exhale. We had made it. From the rural shores of Southern Leyte to the bustling streets of East Java—across three flights, two countries, and one sleepless night. Day zero was over. The adventure had just begun.
We stepped off the plane into the thick, wet heat of Surabaya. Immigration was surprisingly fast, and as we walked past the glass doors into the arrival hall. We had left Tomas Oppus at 6:45 AM on April 15, and exactly 27 hours and 25 minutes later—counting the layovers, the taxi rides, and the sleepless hours in Changi—we were finally here.
Day 1: First Day, First Steps
April 14, 2026 marked the very beginning of what I already feel will be an unforgettable journey. After a long flight, we finally touched down in Surabaya, and the humid air wrapped around us like a warm blanket the moment we stepped out of the airport.
The first thing on our agenda was meeting Bu Irma, the sea teacher coordinator. I wasn’t sure what to expect—would she be strict? Formal? But the moment we saw her waiting for us with a calm, kind smile, all those worries melted away. She greeted us warmly and immediately took us under her wing, explaining the schedule for the day as we drove toward her house in Lamongan. The drive itself was an experience. We saw lots of mosques and big roads. The ride to Lamongan was long and that alone reminded me a little bit that I am finally in a different country.
When we arrived at Bu Irma’s house, I was struck by how simple, big yet inviting it was. She led us inside and gave us time to freshen up and change clothes for the welcoming program that awaited us. Her home felt peaceful—there were family photos on the walls. We only had about ten minutes to prepare, so we moved quickly. Ten minutes. That was all we had to wash our faces, brush our teeth, change out of our crumpled travel clothes, and transform from exhausted travelers into presentable exchange participants. We moved like lightning—splashing water on our faces, pulling on fresh and new uniform, and trying to flatten our hair with wet combs and gel. It was a collective effort to make sure we looked presentable and ready to meet everyone at the university.
After we changed, we headed straight to UNISDA. The campus had a lively but grounded energy—simple buildings surrounded by greenery, students walking between classes, and a welcoming banner that immediately made us feel like honored guests. There we saw our faces and it was a surprise from Bu Irma. Abanner hanging that read: "Welcome Sea Teacher Exchange Participants from the Philippines." Seeing my country's name on that banner made my chest tighten. We were representing not just ourselves, but SLSU - Tomas Oppus, Philippines, and every teacher who had ever believed in us.
The welcoming program itself was heartfelt. There were speeches from the rector of the university and the Bu Irma, the Sea Teacher coordinator, traditional snacks and lunch, and a lot of smiling faces from the key officials and selected students of the university. I remember sitting there, listening to the rhythm of Indonesian words I could only partly understand, but feeling completely included nonetheless. We had prepared a short message in English—thanking them for their hospitality, introducing ourselves, and sharing a little about us. After the speeches, we exchanged small gifts. The program didn’t drag on too long—it was just the right amount of ceremony before we were finally released to settle in for the night.
That’s when we thought it was all done. But, the Dean of the Faculty of Education toured us around UNISDA using a golf cart. He was so kind and warm. He was the one who drove the vehicle himself and all of us felt so honored during that moment.
After that moment, we finally said our goodbyes and went to the home stay.
From there, we went straight to the homestay. The homestay is simple but comfortable—tiled floors, basic furniture, a shared living area, and bedrooms that feel cozy rather than cramped. The five of us spread out, claimed our corners, and let out a collective sigh of relief after such a long day of travel and transition. We didn’t do much after arriving. We sat in a quiet circle for a while, just processing everything. Then, one by one, we retreated to our rooms. I lay on my bed listening to the unfamiliar sounds outside—distant motorbikes, the occasional call to prayer echoing softly through the dark. Today was long, but it was also gentle. Tomorrow, the real work begins. But for now, I’m just grateful to be here, in this quiet house with these four people, at the start of something I know will change me.
Day 2: From Academic Stages to Animal Cages
Day two began earlier than I expected. The sound of the prayer from the mosque nearby started around four in the morning, and I could already hear one of my housemates moving about in the kitchen. We had an important day ahead—the international seminar at UNISDA. We got ready in the morning, had a simple breakfast that me and Ivan cooked, and made sure we looked presentable. Today wasn't just about observing. Today, we were going to be part of something bigger.
We arrived at UNISDA just as the morning heat started to settle over the campus. The seminar hall was already filling up with students and faculty, all of them dressed neatly. The topic of the seminar was something about the theme: Across Borders We Stand, In Knowledge We Expand—relevant to what we came here for—but honestly, my focus was on the speakers. First up was Pak Choi. He had this commanding yet warm presence on stage, the kind of speaker who doesn’t need a microphone to fill a room. He spoke about the special education for deaf students, about how being a teacher means becoming a student of the students, and I found myself nodding along even though I was trying to take notes.
We left the zoo as the sun began to soften, the heat loosening its grip on the day. But what made the afternoon special wasn't just the animals—it was Pak Buyun. He walked with us slowly, pointing out things we would have missed on our own. He didn't rush us, didn't treat the trip like a checklist. At one point, we stopped by a small food stall and shared kropok and cold drinks, just sitting on a wooden bench. The five of us laughed more than we had since we arrived. It felt like the first real moment of ease—no programs, no formalities, just us and Pak Buyun and the afternoon light. On the drive back, Pak Buyun pointed out local landmarks—a market, an old mosque, a street famous for food. The car was quiet but comfortable, the kind of silence that comes from being tired in a good way. By the time we reached the homestay, the sky had turned a deep orange, and the call to evening prayer echoed through the neighborhood.
Tonight, we just sat in the living room for a while, each of us on our phones or staring at the ceiling, too tired to talk but too wired to sleep. Eventually, someone whispered, "That was a good day." And yes, it was. A seminar that made me think, a zoo that made me smile, and the quiet certainty that we are exactly where we're supposed to be. Tomorrow will bring something new. But for now, I'm closing my eyes to the sound of the wind through the mosque speakers and the soft breathing of my four companions in the next room.
Day 3: Two Schools, One City, and the Weight of a Welcome
Today was the day we had been quietly preparing. Deployment day. The word itself felt heavy with meaning—like we were no longer just visitors passing through, but people who had been handed something real to carry. The morning came quickly, and the five of us moved around the homestay with a different kind of energy than before. Less nervous, more focused. We ate breakfast in near silence, not out of awkwardness, but because I think we all knew we needed to save our words for what was ahead.
We left early for MA Matholi'ul Anwar, the first school on our deployment list. The drive was short but scenic—narrow roads lined with trees and children riding motors to school in neat uniforms. When we arrived, I wasn't prepared for the welcome that awaited us. The moment we stepped through the gate, we were met with smiles and soft greetings from teachers and students alike. But it wasn't just a casual handshake and a tour. MA Matholi'ul Anwar had prepared an entire event for us. An event.
There was a room set up, chairs arranged in neat rows, and students inside the room waiting for us—something I'm still not quite used to seeing. The students performed traditional dance, with live singers and their voices steady and proud.
The headmaster gave a speech, then a few of the teachers, and then they welcomed us by giving us a syal batik. After the program, we walked out of the room and I felt overwhelmed and happy.
From there, we rushed to the second school: SMK NU 1 Karanggeneng, Lamongan. If MA Matholi'ul Anwar felt warm and intimate, SMK NU 1 felt grand and forward-looking. We were led straight to their new conference hall—a room that had clearly just been finished, with glossy floors, a long table, and air conditioning that was a welcome relief from the midday heat. Unlike the first school's event, this gathering was more formal. Teachers sat at the front, administrators nodded from the sides, and the five of us were seated like honored guests at the center of it all. The head of the school explained their vision, their challenges, and their hopes for the partnership with SEA-teachers. 
But the day wasn't over. We had made plans to go to Surabaya in the afternoon. This day was a day for Ma'am Leslie's schedule to buy pasalubong for her loved ones. We went from different stores which shocked me. Many local vendors were there inside big buildings. And after Ma'am Leslie found the perfect gifts she would bring home, we finally went to the town square where we waited for Bu Irma and Pak Azis to finish praying. So, we took photos as souvenirs of that place.
Then, we went to a spot. We ordered food we couldn't pronounce, tried iced drinks that came in unfamiliar taste, and for a few hours, we weren't sea teachers or program participants. We were just five friends, sitting in a corner of Surabaya, laughing at inside jokes and taking silly photos.
By the time both deployment programs were over, we were exhausted but deeply fulfilled. It wasn't the tiredness of physical labor—it was the fatigue of having felt so much in so few hours. We had been welcomed not once, but twice, by two different school communities, each one treating us like we mattered.
But the day wasn't over. We had made plans to go to Surabaya in the afternoon. This day was a day for Ma'am Leslie's schedule to buy pasalubong for her loved ones. We went from different stores which shocked me. Many local vendors were there inside big buildings. And after Ma'am Leslie found the perfect gifts she would bring home, we finally went to the town square where we waited for Bu Irma and Pak Azis to finish praying. So, we took photos as souvenirs of that place.
After they were done, we went to a painting event near us and had the chance to have photos with an actress and the beautiful wife of the Vice Governor.
Then, we went to a spot. We ordered food we couldn't pronounce, tried iced drinks that came in unfamiliar taste, and for a few hours, we weren't sea teachers or program participants. We were just five friends, sitting in a corner of Surabaya, laughing at inside jokes and taking silly photos.
We also had the chance to see a theater play and interacted with the kids who starred the show. After watching a few parts of the show, we went to eat dinner at a building where all of the restaurants are and ate everything in the plate.
The evening ended quietly. I climbed into bed with my clothes from today's event. Tomorrow, we actually begin observing. Today was the welcome. Today was the promise. Tomorrow, we observe.
Day 4: Observations and Farewells
Today was a day of quiet watching and heavy hearts—two things I didn't expect to feel so deeply on the same morning. We woke up earlier than usual, not because we had to, but because the day asked for it. The five of us moved slowly around the homestay, ate our breakfast and preparing ourselves for a different kind of work. Today wasn't about being the center of attention or attending ceremonies. Today was about observation. Pure, simple, and humbling observation.
We headed to SMK NU 1 Karanggeneng in the morning, the same school with the new conference hall where we had sat like honored guests just yesterday. But this time, we weren't the guests. We were the learners. The plan was simple: observe the students and how the teacher teach.
We sat at the back of each classroom, notebooks open, pens ready. We took detailed notes on teaching techniques.
The morning passed in a blur of whiteboard markers, laughter, and the ringing of bells we never quite understood the rhythm of. By the time observation ended, we learned so much. Not from books or seminars, but from people who are already in the trenches, doing the work every single day. We thanked the student teachers quietly, shook their hands, and promised to remember what we had seen. And I meant it.
We went back to the homestay in a single-file line, not saying much. Someone's phone played quiet music. Another person kicked a stone down the road. When we finally reached our door, we didn't go straight to bed. Instead, we sat in the living room, the same living room where we had collapsed on that first night, and we talked with Ma'am Leslie.
We helped her packing her bags and after that we said good night to each other.
Day 5: Another Day in the Back Row in Bu Ani's Class
Another day of observation. We returned to SMK NU 1 Karanggeneng, the same school as yesterday, but this time we observed different classes and different teachers. I joined the class of my cooperating teacher, her name was Ibu Ani. It was a class where all the students were presenting their projects and crafts. It was a whole new kind of experience since they were presenting something that was not usual in my field.
The night came, the homestay feels different. Quieter, yes, but also fuller somehow. We sat down after dinner and each of us shared one thing we observed today that we want to bring into our own teaching.
Day 6: Filipiniana in Lamongan, Kartini Day!
Today was unlike any other day we've had so far, and not just because of what we did, but because of what the day itself represented. When I woke up this morning, I noticed a different energy in the air—not just within our homestay, but outside as well. The streets seemed livelier. People wore colorful outfits, in traditional kebaya and batik, others in modern dresses with bright patterns.
It took me a moment to remember: April 21st is Kartini Day. A national holiday in Indonesia honoring Raden Ajeng Kartini, a woman who fought for education and women's rights long before the world was ready to listen. And here we were, five foreign sea teachers in Lamongan, about to observe classrooms on a day that celebrated the very thing we had come here to do.
We split up again for observations, same routine and same classes. In the afternoon, we returned to the homestay earlier than usual because both schools ended their sessions a bit early for Kartini-related activities. We used the extra time to sit together and plan for our own teaching.
Tonight, the homestay is quiet again. The five of us are scattered around, some reading, some writing in journals, one person already asleep on the couch. Outside, the neighborhood has settled into its usual evening rhythm—geckos, distant motorbikes, the soft murmur of of the prayers from mosques through open windows.
Day 7 & 8: Savoring the Remaining Days of Observations
We returned to SMK NU 1 Karanggeneng, we observed our respective classes. We savored each remaining days since it is our last two days before we will have our assistantship phase. After classes, we compared our notes from the day. We had filled pages and pages. But more than the notes, we shared stories.
Then came our final day of observation before we entere a new phase. The weight of that knowledge sat with me from the moment I opened my eyes. Today would be different. Today, I decided, I would observe not with my notebook open, but with my heart open. Ready to just watch and experience every bit of the classes so that I can be ready for what's about to come when I will be handling the class soon.
After school, we gathered for a final observation debrief at the homestay. We sat in a circle on the living room floor, the way we had on that first night, but everything was different now. We were different. We talked about what we had seen over the past eight days. We talked about our own fears—what if we fail? what if the students don't listen? what if we say the wrong thing?—and then we talked about what we had learned from watching: that failing is fine, that students listen when you listen first, that saying the wrong thing can become the right thing if you care enough to fix it.
Day 9: The Day Our Hands Got Full: Lesson Planning With Batch 10
Today was a turning point. After eight days of watching, listening, and absorbing everything we could from the classrooms of Lamongan, we finally shifted from observers to active participants, we spent the day at UNISDA, sitting in a quiet room with binders, laptops, and the generous guidance of the previous batch of SEA-Teachers. Batch 10. The ones who had walked this path before us, who had faced the same fears, made the same mistakes, and somehow survived to tell the tale.
We arrived at UNISDA earlier than usual, around eight in the morning. The campus was calmer than it had been during the international seminar—fewer students milling about, no banners or welcoming committees. We were led to a the laboratorium of Bu, a room with cubicles and computers. Waiting for us were three members of Batch 10—two men and one woman, all of them wearing the quiet confidence of people who had already survived what we were about to begin.
Their names were Mas Irafn (our buddy), Mas Bagas, and Mbak Belgis. They had completed their sea teacher deployment. They greeted us warmly and shook our hands.We looked at each other. The truth was, we had talked about this endlessly at the homestay—tossed around ideas about English conversation practice, cultural exchange activities, maybe a lesson on traditional games from our home countries. But we had never committed anything to paper. We had observed so many teachers, taken so many notes, that our heads were full of possibilities but our hands were empty of plans.
The next several hours were a blur of brainstorming, drafting, revising, and searching for templates. Each of us was responsible for creating our own lesson plan, but we worked side by side, sharing resources and stealing good ideas from one another.
Lunch came and went—Bu Irma gave us food and glasses of sweet iced tea, and we ate while continuing to work.
At the homestay, the five of us sleeping in the rooms are doing the same thing. We are all lying awake, running through scenarios in our heads, imagining the faces of students we have already come to care about.
Day 10: A Skin Infection, a Cancelled Day, and the Kindness That Saved It
Today did not go as planned. Not even close.
I woke up this morning feeling something wrong before I even opened my eyes. There was a heat coming from my left upper chest, a kind of deep, pulsing warmth that didn't belong there. When I finally looked at it in the pale morning light filtering through the homestay window, my heart sank. The skin was red—not just a little red, but angry red, the kind of red that spreads and swells and demands attention. There was a small patch of raised bumps near my wrist, and the area around it felt hot to the touch. I stared at it for a long time, hoping it would go away if I just wished hard enough. It didn't.
I didn't want to tell anyone. That was my first thought—a stupid, selfish thought, but an honest one. We had been looking forward to today for days. A cultural immersion activity. Something special that Bu Irma had arranged for us, a chance to step outside the schools and experience Lamongan in a deeper way. I didn't want to be the reason that got ruined.
But everything was not fine. By the time we gathered in the living room for breakfast, the redness had spread on my tummy, and the bumps had multiplied. I showed it to them and they panicked as well.
Bu Elise took one look at my forearm and her expression shifted from worried to concerned. Not panicked, but concerned in the way that mothers get when they know something needs immediate attention. "We need to go to the hospital," she said quietly. Not a question. A statement. I wanted to argue—to say it was nothing, that it would go away on its own, that I didn't want to be a burden. But the heat from my chest and the look in Bu Elise's eyes told me this wasn't a negotiation.
So I went. For the first time in my life, I went to the hospital for a skin infection. I have never had one before—not as a child, not as an adult. I have been lucky, I suppose. But luck runs out eventually, and today it ran out on my left forearm in the form of angry red bumps that seemed to multiply every time I looked away. Bu Elise accompanied me to the nearest hospital, a small but clean facility about twenty minutes from the homestay. The drive was quiet. I rode Bu Elise's motor to the hospital.
They took my temperature, asked about my symptoms, and gently examined my spots. The doctor—a young woman with kind eyes and a steady voice—diagnosed it as a bacterial skin infection, probably from the heat and humidity and who knows what else. Nothing serious, she said. Treatable with antibiotics and cream. But she advised rest. Lots of rest. And to keep the area clean and dry.
I sat in that clinic room with Bu Elise beside me, listening to the doctor's instructions, and felt a strange mix of emotions. Relief, because it wasn't dangerous. Frustration, because I had never been sick like this before, and it had to happen here, now, when we were so close to finally teaching. Embarrassment, because I didn't want to be the weak one, the one who needed help. And gratitude—deep, unexpected gratitude—because Bu Elise had dropped everything to sit with me in a hospital on a Saturday morning, translating medical terms into English, holding my bag while I got my prescription filled.
Meanwhile, back at the homestay, my four friends were dealing with the rest of the fallout. Bu Irma had gone to another hospital—they never said exactly why, and I didn't want to pry, but it added to the sense that today was simply not meant to happen. The cultural immersion, the thing we had been looking forward to, was cancelled entirely. Not postponed. Cancelled. My friends spent the morning in a kind of limbo, not sure what to do with themselves, texting me for updates and sending photos of the empty living room where we had planned to gather before leaving.
By the time Bu Elise and I returned to the homestay, the day had settled into a strange, heavy stillness. The sun was high, the heat was thick, and the five of us were all exactly where we had started—except now I had a tube of antibiotic cream, a bottle of pills, and spots all over my body. We sat in the living room together, the same room where we had shared so many late-night conversations, and no one knew what to say. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was just... present. Like an extra person in the room.
I apologized. I don't even remember exactly what I said—something about being sorry for ruining the day, for being sick, for making Bu Elise take me to the hospital. But my friends wouldn't let me finish. They told me to stop being ridiculous. They told me that skin infections happen, that cultural immersions can be rescheduled, that the only thing that mattered was that I was okay.
So we rested. All five of us. Not because we were all sick, but because the day had been cancelled and there was nothing else to do. We lay around the homestay like a pile of exhausted kittens.
But here's what I will remember about April 25th. I will remember Bu Elise sitting next to me in that small hospital, translating every word the doctor said, never once making me feel like a burden.
A skin infection. For the first time in my life. In Lamongan, of all places. It feels absurd and unfair and strangely poetic all at once. This journey was never going to be smooth. I knew that. But I didn't expect it to throw me into a hospital room on Day 10, staring at my own red and swollen spots, wondering how I got here.
Tonight, the antibiotics are doing their work. The redness has not spread further, and the heat has gone down just a little. Tomorrow, I hope to be better. But tonight, I am here, in this homestay, with these people, learning a different kind of lesson: that getting sick in a foreign country is terrifying, but being cared for by kind people makes it survivable. That cancellations are not catastrophes. That rest is not weakness.
Day 11: From Cancelled to Unforgettable
Today was redemption.
After yesterday's chaos—the cancelled cultural immersion, the hospital visit, the first skin infection of my life wrapped in prescriptions and embarrassment—I woke up this morning not knowing what to expect.
The five of us had made a decision the night before, huddled in the living room with cups of cold tea and determination in our eyes. We would request that the cultural immersion be rescheduled. Not next week, not someday, but today. We had lost enough time already. The universe had thrown a skin infection and a hospital visit and a cancelled event at us, and we were done waiting for things to go right. We were going to make them go right.
Bu Irma was sympathetic on the phone. She had been at the hospital yesterday for her own reasons—something routine, nothing to worry about—and she understood our desire to reclaim what had been lost. She made a few calls, and then called us back with good news. The cultural immersion could happen this afternoon. We would go to WBL. Wisata Bahari Lamongan. A water park and amusement center by the sea.
I had never heard of WBL before, but the name alone—Wisata Bahari, Marine Tourism—conjured images of waves and salt air and the kind of joy that erases bad days. We spent the morning in a state of excited preparation, which for us meant taking turns in the small bathroom, slathering on sunscreen, packing a small bag with towels and extra clothes. The homestay, which had felt so heavy and still yesterday, was buzzing again.
By early afternoon, a car arrived to take us to WBL. Our special ride, tye car of Bu Irma and the driver would be Pak Anam, the husband of Bu Irma. The drive was about forty minutes, passing through rice fields and small villages and then suddenly opening up to a view of the ocean—blue-gray and endless, with fishing boats bobbing in the distance. I pressed my face against the window like a child.
And we did. Oh, we did.
We started with the horror booth because that seemed like the right place to begin. We rode the crazy rides. Between rides, we ate. My arm held up. I had been worried that the water or the movement or the general chaos would aggravate the infection, but the waterproof cover stayed on, the antibiotics had done their job, and by some small miracle, I felt fine. Better than fine. I felt free.
We stayed until the park began to empty.
On the drive back to the homestay, we were tired in the best way. The kind of tired that comes from a day well spent. And then we went for dinner.
The homestay welcomed us back with its familiar smell. I sat in the corner, applying my antibiotic cream, watching my friends.
We had requested this. We had asked for the cultural immersion to be done, and it was done. But in a way that felt more true to us. We had ridden crazy rides. We had been young and loud and ridiculous and happy.
Tomorrow, we assist. The observation is over. The lesson plans are somehow written. The skin infection is under control. And tonight, I am not a patient or an observer or a student or a teacher. Tonight, I am just someone who had a really, really good day, and who gets to sleep knowing that the people in the next room feel the same way.
Day 12: From the Back of the Room to the Teacher's Side
The morning began early, as all our mornings in Lamongan seem to begin.
When we arrived, the school was already alive with the sounds of morning assembly—students lined up in neat rows, a teacher speaking into a crackling microphone about discipline and dreams. We stood off to the side, watching, waiting. And then the bell rang, and the students scattered to their classrooms, and we were led to the teachers' lounge to meet the teachers we would be assisting.
The classroom was exactly as I remembered it—thirty students, some attentive, some sleepy, one boy in the back who seemed to be drawing something in the margin of his notebook instead of listening.
The morning flew by. One period became two, two became three, and then suddenly it was lunchtime and we were back in the teachers' lounge, eating rice and fried chicken, comparing stories. The teachers smiled at us like we belonged there. And maybe, after today, we finally did.
But the day was not over. In the afternoon, we had another destination: SMP Negeri 1 Lamongan. A different school entirely. Younger students. A different atmosphere. We had heard about this visit but weren't sure what to expect. Would we observe again? Assist again? Simply tour? The answer, it turned out, was a little bit of everything.
In SMP Negeri 1 Lamongan the students were younger—twelve to fourteen years old, mostly—and they moved through the hallways in chattering clusters, their voices higher and more restless than the vocational students we had grown used to. When we arrived, there were students who welcomed us, the teachers greeted us personally, and Pak Anam, who was the school's former head master for many years.We spent the first hour on a tour of the school. We had the chance to step into classrooms and introduce ourselves. Then, the three student teachers from group had a Podcast with the students there.
As the sun began to lower over SMP Negeri 1, we said our thank-yous and made our way back to the car. The drive to the homestay was quiet, but not the tired quiet of exhaustion. The thoughtful quiet of having experienced something meaningful. The assistantship this morning had shown us what it felt like to be useful in a classroom. The visit this afternoon had shown us what it felt like to be welcomed into a community. Both were gifts. Both were necessary.
Tomorrow, we assist again. And the day after that, maybe we finally teach our own lessons. But tonight, I am content to sit on this chair in this simple homestay, listening to my friends talk about their day, feeling the familiar weight of gratitude in my chest. We came here to learn how to teach. But every day, someone here teaches us how to live.
Day 13: Another Day of Assistantship, But Something Shifted
We returned to SMK NU 1 Karanggeneng in the morning, as we had planned. The school was beginning to feel like a second home. The security guard at the gate recognized us now and waved us through with a smile. The teachers in the lounge no longer looked up curiously when we entered; they just nodded and went back to their conversations, accepting our presence as natural. Even the students, who had once stared at us like we were strange creatures from another planet, now greeted us with casual "Good morning, Miss!" as we walked down the hallways. Familiarity is a quiet gift. It doesn't announce itself. You just wake up one day and realize you belong somewhere.
After the morning's assistantship, we returned to the homestay for a quick lunch and rest. My friends and I compared notes again, as we had started doing every day.
These are the moments that don't make it into lesson plans. The unexpected breakthroughs. The quiet students who just need someone to notice them. Every day, this country teaches me that teaching is not about delivering content. It is about seeing people. Really seeing them. And then helping them see themselves.Tonight, we sat in the living room longer than usual. No one wanted to go to bed. We talked about our plans for our own lessons—when we would finally teach, what we would teach, whether the students would like us. We talked about how fast the days were passing, how we had already been here for nearly two weeks, how the end was starting to feel visible on the horizon. That brought a wave of sadness I hadn't expected.
Day 13 of 30. We are past the halfway point. And every day, I understand a little more why I came.
Day 14: Demonstration Morning and a Madrasah Welcome
I woke up before my alarm, which never happens. My body seemed to know that today was different. The sky was still dark, the neighborhood quiet except for the usual chorus of roosters and prayer from mosque. I lay in bed for a while, running through my plan in my head. I had decided to lay classroom rules for today before I start my real lesson.
The morning had been intense, emotional, and deeply satisfying. But the day was not over. In the afternoon, we had another visit scheduled: MAN 1 Lamongan. A madrasah aliyah negeri—a public Islamic senior high school. We had heard about MAN 1 from some of the other sea teachers. It had a reputation for academic excellence and strong discipline. The students wore neat uniforms, the girls in hijab, the boys in button-up shirts and dark pants. The campus was clean and orderly, with flowering plants along the pathways and the call of students reciting Quranic verses filtering through the windows.
We were greeted by the headmaster, a serious but kind woman, and a group of English teachers who seemed genuinely excited to meet us. they welcomed us with bands, a performance and an event.
The event was overwhelming and I was deeply honored to experience this. We were asked to introduce ourselves. I was so nervous and I don't know why. But I delivered my speech well. There were questions asked that they wanted us to answer, and each one of us answered the questions.
After that, we went to their canteen and ate Mie Ayam with the teachers and some students. Then we bid our goodbyes and went back to the homestay.
Day 14. Two weeks in this beautiful, complicated, overwhelming country. Two weeks of observation, assistantship, hospital visits, crazy rides, and one small demonstration that changed how I see myself. I don't know what the next two weeks will bring. But tonight, I am grateful. Deeply, quietly, endlessly grateful.
Day 15: Halfway Day: From UNISDA Classrooms to an Entrepreneurship Seminar
Today was a day of many pieces—some expected, some surprising, all of them fitting together into something I know I will look back on for years to come. Day 15 marked the official halfway point of our journey, and it felt fitting that today wasn't about me teaching or assisting, but about me learning. My academic immersion day. A chance to step away from the role of SEA-Teacher and become, once again, a student.
We met at the homestay just after eight. He was wearing his student uniform and he looked different somehow. More serious. More focused. He greeted me with his usual quiet warmth and then led me to his motorbike which will be our ride to UNISDA.Irfan was an English student, and his first class of the day was with Bu Anita. I followed him into a classroom that looked more like a conference room. Irfan led me to an empty seat near the front. "You don't have to understand everything," he whispered. "Just watch."
And watch I did. The lecturer, a woman with a soft voice, spent the first half hour explaining the principles of EduPrenuership, using diagrams on the presented slides.
The second half of the class was an activity. Students paired up to answer the answer sheets given by Bu Anita. I became Irfan's parter and I just watched him work on his own.
After the class, Irfan gave me a tour of the science department, where Bu Irma met me briefly. Teachers greeted me and prepared a small talk in a classroom. I saw students and interacted with them.
We walked through hallway after hallway, past doors that opened into labs, and something called an "engineering workshop." It was in that workshop that I saw something that took my breath away. Student projects. Rows and rows of them, and equipment I never saw before.
Irfan watched me taking it all in. And then, he went home because his job was done.
The morning had been rich and full, but the afternoon promised something different. An international student seminar on economic entrepreneurship, held at one of UNISDA's classroom.
She walked to the podium slowly, deliberately, and for a moment, she just stood there, looking out at the audience. Then she began to speak.
The seminar ended with a question and answer session, and then with snacks and sweet tea. I found Mary Mae surrounded by a small crowd of students who wanted to ask her to take photos with her. She handled it all with grace, nodding, listening, making each person feel seen. I waited until the crowd thinned, then walked up to her and congratulated her.
Tonight, back at the homestay, we are all quiet in different ways.
Day 15. Halfway. Fifteen days behind us, fifteen days ahead. Today I was a student again, sitting in Irfan's class, marveling at engineering projects, cheering for my friend on a stage. Tomorrow, I will be a teacher again. But tonight, I am simply grateful. Most especially for Irfan's patience.
Day 16: From Lamongan to the Highlands
Yesterday afternoon, Bu Irma had informed us, an announcement that made all five of us stop what we were doing. "Tomorrow," she said, "we are going to Malang."
Malang. The name alone conjured images of cool mountain air, colonial architecture, and the kind of scenery that postcards are made of. We had never imagined we would actually go there. And yet, here we were, piling into a van at six in the morning, still half-asleep but buzzing with excitement.
The drive to Malang took about three hours. I spent most of it with my face pressed against the window, watching the landscape transform. The flat fields of Lamongan gave way to rolling hills, then steeper slopes, then mountains shrouded in mist. The air changed too—from the thick, wet heat of the coast to something cooler and crisper, like the first breath of autumn after a long summer. By the time we reached Pujon, a district in the highlands of Malang, I watched by window how the view changed.
Our destination was Florawisata Santerra, a flower garden and amusement park nestled in the hills of Pujon. The name itself was a promise: flora for the flowers, wisata for tourism, Santerra rolling off the tongue like a song. When we pulled into the parking lot and stepped out of the van, I understood immediately why we had come all this way. The place was breathtaking. Rows upon rows of flowers—roses, lavender, marigolds, bougainvillea—cascaded down terraced hillsides in explosions of pink, purple, yellow, and red. In the distance, Mount Arjuna rose against the sky, its peak hidden in clouds. And scattered throughout the gardens were rides. Not the kind you find at a county fair, but whimsical, almost dreamlike attractions: a Ferris wheel painted in pastel colors. 
We found the rides. The Tower Drop was our first stop. Intense right from the first. Next was the Ferris Wheel, not because it was the most exciting, but because it offered the best view. We climbed into a pastel pink gondola. From the top, we could see everything: the flower terraces, the winding paths, the distant farms and villages, the mountains on the horizon, and the sky, impossibly blue and wide. "This is worth every minute of the drive," someone said. No one disagreed.The afternoon brought something unexpected: a sudden rain shower that swept across the mountains with little warning. One moment the sky was blue, the next it was gray, and then the rain was falling. The rain smelled like wet earth and flowers, I will remember this moment. This exact moment.
When the rain slowed to a drizzle, we ventured out again. The gardens looked different now—washed clean, the colors somehow brighter, the air fresher.
The drive back to Lamongan was quiet in a different way. We were tired—the good kind of tired, the kind that comes from a day spent outdoors, from walking and laughing and breathing fresh air. The sun set behind the mountains as we descended from the highlands, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink and purple. I watched the light fade and thought about how fast these sixteen days had passed. How we had arrived as strangers and somehow, impossibly, become people who share inside jokes and food and silences that don't need to be filled.
Back at the homestay, we are all still wearing the wristbands from the park, paper things that will probably fall apart in the shower, but none of us want to take them off just yet.
Day 16. A day that wasn't on the original schedule. A day that reminded me that sometimes the best learning happens outside the classroom—on a Ferris wheel, under a rain, on a mountain road at sunset. Tomorrow, we will return to our roles: student teachers.
Day 17: From the Homestay Living Room to a Sleepover We Didn't Know We Needed
Today was a day of two halves—one quiet and productive, the other warm and unexpected. After the exhilaration of Malang yesterday, it felt right to slow down, to turn inward, to prepare for what comes next. Because what comes next is no longer observation or assistantship or practice demonstrations in front of friendly faces. What comes next is the real thing. And today, we made sure we were ready.
We woke up later than usual, the afterglow of yesterday's adventure still lingering in our bones. The homestay was quiet except for the familiar morning sounds. One by one, we drifted into the living room, still in our sleeping clothes, hair messy, eyes half-closed. No one rushed. No one had anywhere to be. For the first time in days, our morning was our own.
But we had work to do. Real work. The kind that would determine how our final weeks in Lamongan would unfold.
After a lazy breakfast of bread and nutella and milo, we spread out across the living room like students during finals week. Laptops opened. Notebooks flipped to clean pages. Pens were uncapped, highlighters arranged in neat rows. The five of us had been given the green light to teach our own lessons starting next week—full lessons, not just short demonstrations. Real students, real classrooms, real stakes. And today was our last chance to plan, revise, and prepare before we stepped into the arena.
I pulled up my lesson plan and polished it. Then I sent it to my cooperating teacher for checking. By the time I finished, my lesson plan had grown from one page to three. I felt ready. Nervous, but ready.
Across the room, my friends were doing the same thing. One of them was cutting out colorful flashcards for an English lesson. Another was practicing her pronunciation of Indonesian words.
We worked in companionable silence, interrupted occasionally by questions or requests for feedback. "Does this activity make sense?" "How many minutes should I spend on this part?" "Can you listen to me explain this concept and tell me if it's clear?" We were each other's sounding boards, each other's editors, each other's cheerleaders. I realized, sitting there on the floor of the homestay with papers spread around me like a nest, that this was a kind of teaching too. Not teaching students, but teaching each other. Sharing what we knew. Offering help without being asked. Creating something together that none of us could have created alone.
By noon, we had all finished our lesson plans.
We ate lunch together. We rested. Truly rested. Just the small, precious gift of an afternoon with nowhere to go.
Bu Irma—our coordinator, our mentor, the woman who had greeted us at the airport on Day 1 and guided us through every twist and turn of this journey—wanted us to have a sleepover at her place. Not for a meeting. Not for a check-in. For a sleepover. Like we were her children. Like we were family.
The next hour was a blur of preparation. We packed our bags and brought what is necessary.
Irfan will be with us tonight. He will accompany us to go to Bu Irma's house.
We walked through the streets of Karanggeneng as the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. And stopped at the bus stop, waited for the TransJatim to pass and rode it.
After that, we went to the mall and ate our dinner. We waited for Bu Irma to pick us up there.
When Bu Irma arrived, we went to stores to check if we wanted to buy something then, we went to the favorite place Pak Anam and Bu Irma usually spend their Saturday night together. They ordered food for us and juice and after we chatted and ate, we went to her home.
When we arrived and finally settled ourselves in, we changed into our sleeping clothes and arranged ourselves on the mattresses in the room.
Then, one by one, we fell asleep. I was the last one awake, lying on my back, looking at the ceiling fan, listening to the soft breathing of the people around me.
Day 17. A day of planning and preparation. A day of sleepovers and strolls.
Day 18: The Transportation Day
Today was not a teaching day. Today was not an observation day. Today was not even a day we had planned for in any of our schedules or lesson plan folders. Today was a day of movement, of transit, of the kind of travel that strips away all pretense and leaves you with nothing but your willingness to adapt. We went to Surabaya—not as tourists this time, not for a seminar, but for something more mundane and somehow more meaningful. We went to experience transportation. Indonesian transportation. The real kind.
And we woke up at 3 AM to do it.
The alarm went off like a scream in the dark. I had barely fallen asleep—or so it felt—when the buzzing of my phone dragged me out of a dream I couldn't remember. 3:00 AM. The home was pitch black, the air cool and heavy with the kind of silence that only exists in the deepest part of the night. For a moment, I lay there, disoriented, wondering why my body was being summoned from rest. Then I remembered. Surabaya. The train. The early departure that had seemed like a good idea when Bu Irma suggested it but now felt like a punishment.
We met Bu Irma outside of her house at 3:30 AM. She was already there, of course, waiting by the side of the car with a bag of small pastries she must have bought the night before. She looked fresh, almost energetic, which seemed unfair given the hour.
The train station was big and quiet when we arrived. The train arrived at 5:00 AM, right on time. It was not the sleek, modern train I had imagined. It was older, its paint faded, its windows streaked with the residue of countless journeys. But when we stepped inside, I felt a thrill I hadn't expected. The seats were arranged in rows facing each other, padded with worn velvet that had probably been bright once.
We found our seats and settled in for the ride. The train lurched forward, slowly at first, then with more confidence, pulling out of the station and into the countryside. I watched Lamongan disappear through the window, the houses growing smaller, and then fell asleep.
The train ride to Surabaya took about two hours.
Surabaya was already loud and chaotic when we arrived. The train station was a swirl of people and noise and movement. We followed Bu Irma through the crowd like ducklings, staying close, trying not to get separated. The air was hot and thick, even this early in the morning, and I could feel sweat beginning to form on my forehead.
From the train station, we walked to the bus stop hoping to ride a bus. Not a tourist bus. A city bus, the kind that locals take to work and school and market. But instead we ride the angkot or the minivans.
Then, successfully we took another bus after that. And then we walked—six blocks, Bu Irma counting them out, through streets lined with shops and food stalls and parked motorbikes. By the time we reached our destination, I had lost track of how many vehicles we had ridden. My legs were tired. My back ached. But I was also exhilarated, in a way I hadn't expected. We had done it. We had navigated the public transportation system of a major Indonesian city, with nothing but Bu Irma's guidance and our own willingness to follow. It felt like an accomplishment. It felt like proof that we were no longer the wide-eyed newcomers who had arrived in Surabaya eighteen days ago.
The rest of the morning and early afternoon were spent at Surabaya, walking, exploring, and taking phtos. We had planned to return to Lamongan in the afternoon.
The journey back to Lamongan was a ride of buses. Three buses to be exact.
The homestay greeted us with its familiar smell—incense and laundry detergent and frangipani—and we fell onto our respective beds without even changing clothes.
Tonight, I am lying in the dark, too tired to write but too full of thoughts to sleep. We woke up at 3 AM. We rode angkots and buses and a train. We navigated a city we barely knew, following a woman who had become our anchor. And then we came home.
Day 18. We simply traveled. But I learned something today that no classroom could have taught me. I learned that transportation is not just about getting from one place to another. It is about trust—trusting the driver, trusting the route, trusting the person beside you. It is about patience—waiting for the bus, sitting through traffic, accepting that some things cannot be rushed. It is about humility—standing in a crowded angkot, holding onto a rail, being one among many.
Day 19 - 21: Charades, Creative Economy, and the Courage to Try
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I woke up with a weight on my chest that had nothing to do with the humidity. My stomach churned as I brushed my teeth. My hands trembled slightly as I buttoned my blouse. The five of us moved around the homestay in a fog of mutual anxiety, none of us saying much, all of us feeling the enormity of the day ahead. We arrived at SMK NU 1 Karanggeneng an hour early. Pak Buyun was already there, ready to observe Sir France's class.
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After the first observation, Pak Buyun arrived ten minutes before the bell to observe my class. He walked in quietly, nodded at me, and took a seat in the back corner—the observer's seat, the one I had occupied so many times before. He opened his clipboard, clicked his pen, and looked at me with an expression that was neither encouraging nor discouraging. It was, I realized, the expression of someone who was waiting to see what I would do. Not judging yet. Just watching. Just waiting.The bell rang. The students filed in. I took a breath. I looked at Pak Buyun's clipboard. Then I looked at the students, and I began.
"Good morning, class."
The words came out steadier than I felt. I moved into the warm-up activity then to my Charades that made the class burst into laughter and engagment then to the lesson proper.
At one point, I glanced at the back of the room. Pak Buyun was writing something on his clipboard. I couldn't read his expression, and I forced myself not to try. I couldn't teach for his approval. I had to teach for these students. So I turned back to the class and kept going.
The seventy minutes passed faster than any seventy minutes I had ever experienced. One moment I was introducing Creative Economy; the next, I was collecting exit tickets and wishing the students a good day. The bell rang.
Pak Buyun gave me a slight nod and a gentle smile. During our debriefing afterward, he commended me on how well I had prepared, managed the classroom, creatively used games, and connected with the students—despite the difficulties posed by the language barrier and the subject matter. Overall, he noted that I had demonstrated growth and potential as a future teacher. That first demonstration day taught me that teaching isn’t about being flawless. It’s about being prepared, staying fully present, and having the courage to try new approaches. In the end, Pak Buyun’s presence didn’t make me feel intimidated—it motivated me to do my absolute best. For that, I am deeply thankful.
The second and third day came and was now bearable. Three days of demos. Three lessons taught, evaluated, and survived.
We aced our demonstration phase, delivering lessons excellently, even though in my case I had a challenge to teach Social Science instead of Science. It tuaght me that a teacher is flexible, adaptive and resilient.
We are not perfect teachers. We may never be. But we are teachers. We stood in front of real students, in a real classroom, in a real country far from home, and we taught. And Pak Buyun watched. And we survived.
Three weeks in Lamongan. Three demos down. My heart is full.
Day 22: A Batik Sarong, Handwritten Notes, and a Sack Race
Today, my journey as a teacher at SMK NU 1 Karanggeneng came to an unexpected close. While my four friends still had classes to teach and demos to complete, my schedule had run its course. My demo was done. My evaluation was complete. And today, I walked into the classroom not as a teacher with a lesson plan, but as someone saying goodbye.
I didn't know it would be my last day when I woke up. I had assumed we would all finish together, that our farewells would be synchronized. But the schedule had other plans. The other four still had teaching duties ahead of them—more demos, more assistantship, more time in front of students. But for me, today was my final duty. My last day at SMK. My last chance to see the students who had taught me as much as I had taught them.
I reached the classroom door and paused. I could hear students inside—the low murmur of conversation, the scrape of chairs, someone laughing at a joke I couldn't understand. This was not my class to teach today. I had no lesson plan, no warm-up activity, no exit ticket. I had simply wanted to say goodbye. I had wanted to thank them. I hadn't expected anything in return.
The classroom was different. I stood in the doorway, went in front of the classroom and I felt my throat close up.
The students were smiling. All of them. And then they gave me a gift bag.
It was a batik sarong. With notes inside, for me.
We took pictures and I left the classroom with a heavy but happy heart.
The morning had left me raw and tender, like a wound that was also a gift. I needed something light. Something fun. Something that would remind me that farewells are not the end, just a different kind of beginning. And that afternoon, at UNISDA, I found exactly that.
The games were simple. Traditional Indonesian games, like what we call sack race, balloon centipede and blindfolded hitting a hanging plastic of water. We introduced them our own games, like the one we enjoyed the most the buwan-buwan. I ran until my lungs burned. I jumped until my legs ached.
Day 22. I am not the same person who arrived at Juanda airport twenty-two days ago. That person was nervous, uncertain, afraid of skin infections and failed lessons and not being good enough. This person—the one writing these words is different. She is stronger. She is braver. She is more broken and more whole all at once.
Day 23: Biodiversity in the Classroom, Gratitude in My Chest: The Unexpected Best Day
This day was unexpected in the best possible way. Yesterday, I thought my teaching days in Lamongan were over. I had said my goodbyes at SMK NU 1 Karanggeneng, received my precious gift, took a picture with my twenty-one students, and exit the classroom door for the last time. I had made peace with the fact that my journey as a teacher in Indonesia had ended. But life, it turns out, had other plans.
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Last night I prepared for another demo, as per what Bu Irma instructed us days ago that we will have another teaching experience but in another school. "Would you be willing to do one more demo?" she asked. "At MAN 1 Lamongan. They heard about your demonstration and requested you all. But there's a catch. They want you to teach biology, physics or chemistry, it's up to you. Not social science. Not English. But Science."I stared at the phone the day I knew about it. Biology. This is what I want to teach and this is a chance that I can teach my field.
The rest of the night was a blur of preparation. I opened my laptop and spent hours reading about biodiversity—the variety of life on Earth, the three main components (genetic diversity, species diversity, ecosystem diversity), the threats facing biodiversity in Indonesia, and the conservation efforts that were making a difference.
The alarm went off at 5:30 AM. I had never been so tired and so awake at the same time.
The classroom was large and bright, with windows that faced a garden full of plants. Thirty students sat in neat rows, their uniforms crisp, their eyes curious. At the back of the room, the science teacher and an English teacher were there ready to observe and help me with the translation. I took a deep breath, set down my materials, and looked at the students."Good morning," I said. "Today, we are going to talk about biodiversity. Does anyone know what that word means?"
And my class went on. I was not expecting it to be that engaging and fun, but my students were pareticipative and was very curious with what I was teaching.
After the classes, we went to the office and ate our lunch and said our thank you and goodbye to the school's teachers.
Day 23. An extra day. An extra demo. An extra school. A subject I never expected to teach. Thinking about the word "biodiversity" and how it means the variety of life—all of it, connected, precious, worth protecting.
That includes this life. This journey. This unexpected day that became one of the best of my life.
Day 24: Two Ceremonies, One Chapter Closed: Saying Goodbye to MA Matholi'ul Anwar and SMK NU 1
Today was the culmination. The word itself feels heavy, weighty—like something you build toward for a long time and then, suddenly, it's here. For twenty-four days, we had been observing, assisting, planning, teaching, crying, laughing, and growing. And today, at MA Matholi'ul Anwar and SMK NU 1 Karanggeneng, we gathered one last time to celebrate the end of our journey. Not just the five of us, but the teachers and the students, which had adopted us as their own.
I woke up with a different kind of feeling in my chest. Not the nervousness of a teaching day. Not the exhaustion of a travel day. Something closer to nostalgia, but for a moment that hadn't even passed yet. Today would be full of goodbyes—real goodbyes, not the soft farewells I had already said to my students. Today, we would close the door on this chapter for good.
The culmination at SMK will start around 10 AM, so we were invited to attend the culmination of the two student teachers assigned in MAWAR.
We gathered in the same room where we were welcomed, surrounded by teachers, students, and our supervising mentors. The headmaster gave a short, heartfelt speech about how we’d grown from nervous trainees into confident educators. Bu Irma also gave her speech. Then, it was Ivan's turn to share his reflections. It was as grand as the deployment ceremony we had. They prepared performances that we enjoyed watching. We savored every moment because this will be the last time we will ever see them again. Tokens have been exchanged and photos were taken.
After the event, we ate our early lunch and after that we went straight to SMK.
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When we arrived at SMK, it was different from MAWAR. Our culmination was intimate and was attended by teachers only. We sat in front and it was nice to see their faces for the last time. The headmaster delivered his speech which was a heartfelt one. Bu Irma also delivered her speech. And our leader, Mary Mae delivered our appreciation speech for the school. They gave us tokens and we took photos together.
Then we went straight to their meeting room and had our lunch for the last time in SMK.
After the heavy goodbyes, we went straight to the homestay with grateful hearts.
Day 24. The culmination. The end of our journey as sea teachers in our assigned schools, but not the end of the journey itself.
Day 25: From the Town Square to the Stage: A Day of Movement and Music
Today was a day of movement, music, and practice—a day that reminded me that even at the end of a journey, there is still so much to do, so much to learn, so much to savor. The culmination was behind us, but the farewells were not finished. There was still one more event to prepare for, one more chance to gather with the people who had made this experience unforgettable. And before all of that, there was jogging. Zumba. Lunch with teachers. A day that felt like a gift wrapped in sweat and laughter.
The alarm went off at 5:30 AM. But somehow, I didn't mind. Bu Irma had told us the night before that the Mawar teachers had invited us to join their morning exercise routine at the Lamongan town square.
We joined the joggers, falling in at the back, our pace awkward at first. I hadn't jogged in weeks. My lungs burned. My legs protested. But slowly, my body remembered what to do.
The jog lasted about twenty minutes. Then the zumba began.
The instructor—a woman with boundless energy and a smile that could power a small city—stood on a small stage and called out instructions in Indonesian. I understood maybe every fifth word. But zumba, I learned, is a language that doesn't need translation. You watch. You move. You make mistakes and laugh and keep going.
For the next hour, I shook hips I didn't know I had. I waved my arms like a windmill. I stepped left, stepped right, turned in circles, and stumbled more times than I could count. By the end, I was drenched in sweat, my hair plastered to my forehead, my cheeks sore from smiling. It was, without question, one of the best mornings of my life.
After zumba, we collapsed, gasping for water, watching the instructor lead a cool-down stretch.
We had recovered enough to walk, the teachers from Mawar led us to a small restaurant near the town square. It was not a fancy place—wooden tables and chairs, a ceiling fan that spun lazily overhead. But the food, as always, was extraordinary.
After lunch, we walked back to the homestay together, the teachers and us, our pace slow and full.
The day was not over. In the afternoon, we gathered at UNISDA for something we had been both looking forward, to practice for the final event. Tomorrow, there would be a formal farewell ceremony—speeches, performances, certificates, and a final chance for us to stand in front of the community that had embraced us. And we, the five sea teachers, had been asked to perform. A song. A traditional dance. Something to show our gratitude, our learning, our love.
We had chosen a song. Pinoy Ako and Alamak, arranged in a way that would honor both our cultures.
UNISDA's event hall was larger than I remembered. The stage was set with chairs and a podium, the sound system tested and ready. We stood at the edge of the stage, looking out at the empty seats, and tried to imagine them filled with people tomorrow. Teachers. Students. Coordinators. Friends. It was intimidating. But it was also exciting.
Our practice was... imperfect. We forgot lyrics. We started at different tempos. We all dissolved into laughter. Pak Buyun was helping us, watched us with a bemused expression, shaking his head but smiling.
Slowly, the song came together. Our voices found harmony. Our movements synchronized. By the fourth run-through, we sounded like a real group—not professional, not polished, but real. Pak Buyun gave us a thumbs-up.
By the time we finished, the sun was setting, painting the UNISDA campus in shades of orange and gold. We stood outside the event hall, drinking water from plastic cups, too tired to speak but too full of emotion to leave. One of my friends started humming the song under her breath, and soon we were all humming, a quiet chorus in the fading light. After dinner, Pak Azis, our favorite chauffer brought us home to the homestay.
For the third-to-last night, we are exhausted but peaceful. Our bodies ache from jogging and zumba and hours of practice. Our hearts ache from the goodbyes that have already happened and the one goodbye that is still to come. Tomorrow, we perform. Tomorrow, we close this chapter for real.
Day 26: Not Goodbye, But Until We Meet Again
Today was the day we had been anticipating. The final curtain. The last page of this chapter. Day 26 brought with it a whirlwind of emotions, events, and farewells—a culmination not just of our teaching journey, but of everything we had become during our time in Lamongan. There was a formal program, an international forum, a lunch with our fellow sea teachers, and a thousand small moments that I will carry with me forever.
I woke up before the sun, as I had on so many mornings here. But this time, I didn't rush to get ready. I lay in bed, listening to the familiar sounds of the homestay. Twenty-six days ago, these sounds were foreign, almost unsettling. Now they were the soundtrack of home. I wanted to bottle them, to take them with me, to play them back on nights when I missed this place too much.
We dressed carefully, the five of us, in our best clothes. Wearing our national custome..jpeg)
UNISDA's event hall was packed when we arrived. Teachers, students, coordinators gathered to honor Batch 11—us—and to say their own goodbyes. .jpeg)
We were seated in the front row, the five of us, directly facing the stage. Behind us, I could hear the whispers of students, the laughter of teachers.The program began with the singing of all the national anthems of the countries of the students that are present and studying in UNISDA. Then it was time for the performances. Students from UNISDA was the first to perform. Next, was us.
We walked to the stage, the five of us, our hands trembling, our hearts pounding. We had practiced this song so many times—in the homestay, at UNISDA, in our dreams—but nothing could have prepared us for the reality of performing it in front of this audience, these people, this community that had become our home.
It was our turn to dance Tiklos, which is a traditional dance that symbolizes bayanihan. After that, we sang Pinoy Ako. Proudly.Then it was time for the speeches. Bu Irma was the one who delivered her speech first, which we never had the chance to hear. Next was the rektor if the university. His speech highlighted that, this journey is not a goodbye, but until we meet again.
Then, it is my turn to deliver my speech. I was chosen to represent our batch, to say thank you and share our experiences during our one month stay.
When
I was asked to make this speech, I almost said no. Because honestly? I'm not used
to doing this. I'm just a regular person who happened to get on a plane and
land in Indonesia a few weeks ago. But as what Bu Irma and Pak Buyun said,
“NIKKI WILL BE THE SPEAKER, CASE CLOSED”. I had nothing to do about it. And besides, how can you say no if it is your chance to tell them what you truly feel.
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I went up to the stage as soon as my name was called. I delivered my speech and surprisingly, I did not cry. I finished my speech and walked back to my chair, feeling relieved that I said thank you to all the people that needs to hear our gratitude.Then, we performed our last song, the theme song of our batch, all because of Pak Buyun, Alamak. It was a nerve-racking performance since we are very careful on how to pronounce the words correctly. But we survived and saw Pak Buyun smiling at us and singing with us.
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After the performances, we received our final certificates. Not the ones from the school, but official certificates from UNISDA, recognizing our completion of the sea teacher program. We shook hands with the officials, posed for a thousand photos, and accepted tokens from the school..jpeg)
The farewell program ended around noon, but the day was only half over. In the afternoon, UNISDA hosted an international forum with a weighty and urgent title: "Gen Z Against War". The forum brought together students from UNISDA, representatives from local youth organizations, and the five of us—sea teachers from different countries, different backgrounds, different perspectives. One of us was a participant and a speaker.
The discussion was moderated by a student from UNISDA. Speakers began presenting their speeches.The forum lasted two more hours. We talked about practical solutions—education, dialogue, youth leadership, the power of storytelling. We didn't solve anything, not really. But we listened to each other. We respected each other. We left the room different than we had entered. And maybe, I thought, that was enough. Maybe that was everything.
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The final event of the day—and of our time in Lamongan—was a dinner at the homestay. Just us. The sea teachers of Batch 11 and Irfan. Just the people who had shared every moment of this journey, from the nervous first day to the tearful final performance.
After dinner, we sat in the living room. The room was empty now, stripped of our belongings, ready for the next batch of sea teachers who would arrive in years. But for tonight, it was still ours.
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We talked for hours. About everything. About nothing. About all of it.And then, one by one, we fell asleep.
I was the last one awake. I lay on my back, staring at the fan, listening to my friends breathe. The fan turned lazy circles, just as it had on that first night, just as it would for the next batch of sea teachers who would sleep in this room. I thought about all the moments I had written down in this diary.
Day 27: The Suitcase by the Door, The Blog on My Laptop, and the Certainty That I Will Never Be the Same
Today was quiet. After the whirlwind of Day 26, today felt like the deep breath before the final plunge. There were no ceremonies, no performances, no speeches. Just us, the homestay, and the slow, deliberate work of closing a chapter.
I woke up later than usual, the sun already high, the heat pressing against the windows like it wanted to come inside and say goodbye too. For a moment, I forgot where I was. The fan spun lazily, the same fan that had watched over all our late-night conversations, all our tears and laughter. Then I remembered. Today was packing day. Today was blog finalization day. Tomorrow, we would leave Lamongan for the last time.
The homestay looked different in the morning light. Stripped of our belongings, it felt emptier, echoey, like a seashell that no longer held the sound of the ocean. Our suitcases were open on the floor, their hungry mouths waiting to be filled. Clothes were folded in neat piles. Souvenirs were sorted into bags.
Packing is a strange act. It forces you to take inventory—not just of your things, but of your memories. Every item I touched carried a story. I never thought packing would be this hard. I was excited to go home but I was sad to know I am leaving tomorrow.
After the suitcases were packed—or at least after they were no longer empty—we gathered in the living room with our laptops. Today was also the start to finalize for our final blog posts, the digital record of our journey that would live on long after we left. Each of us had been writing throughout the month, chronicling our observations, our lessons, our triumphs and failures. But today was about finishing. Polishing. Making sure our words would do justice to the experience.
I opened my blog and scrolled through the entries I had written. The first one was tentative, almost shy, full of exclamation points and nervous energy. I smiled, remembering how overwhelmed I had felt, how foreign everything seemed. The heat. The noise. The kindness of strangers. I had been so afraid, and I hadn't even known it.
The middle entries were messier—long paragraphs, run-on sentences, emotions bleeding through the words. The skin infection. The cancelled cultural immersion. The first demo with Pak Buyun watching. The farewell gifts from my students. I had written through tears more than once, my fingers stumbling over the keyboard, desperate to capture something that felt too big for language.
The final entries were different. Slower. More deliberate. I had stopped trying to impress or entertain. I was just trying to remember. To honor. To say thank you in a way that felt true.
I spent the morning editing, adding photos. My friends did the same, the room filled with the soft click of keyboards and the occasional sigh. Every so often, someone would read a passage aloud—a funny story, a touching moment—and we would laugh or cry or both. This blog was not just an assignment. It was our collective memory, the artifact we would carry into the future, proof that we had been here, that we had mattered, that Lamongan had changed us.
The rest of the afternoon was unstructured, unplanned, a gift of emptiness before the busyness of departure. We wandered through the homestay like ghosts, touching walls, looking out windows, opening cabinets that no longer held our clothes. The kitchen smelled faintly of the disastrous dinner we had cooked last night. The bathroom floor was still damp from our final showers. Everything was ordinary. Everything was sacred.
We talked about our plans for when we got home. Seeing our families. Sleeping in our own beds. Eating food that didn't make our mouths burn. But even as we said these things, we knew that home would feel different now. We would feel different. You cannot spend a month in Lamongan and return unchanged. The change was already happening, had been happening since Day 1, and there was no going back.
For our last dinner in Lamongan, the batch 11 oof UNISDA joined us. We ate on the floor of the living room, picnic-style, the way we had on that first night when we were still testing each other's boundaries. But tonight, there were no boundaries. We ate with our hands.
After dinner, we washed the dishes together.
I am writing this final entry from my bed, the bed where I have slept for twenty-seven nights. My suitcase stands by the door, zipped and ready. My backpack is packed with the things I need for the journey—my passport, my wallet, my phone.
Tomorrow, we will wake up early. We will strip the beds and gather the last of our things. We will lock the door of the homestay for the last time and walk to the waiting van. We will drive to the airport, past the tambak and the trees, past the school where we taught and the stores where we bought things and all of the places that we would pass by always. We will board a plane, and then another plane, and then we will be home.
But home is not a place. It is not a building or a city or a country. Home is a feeling. And right now, lying in this bed, listening to my friends settle into sleep in the rooms around me, I am home. Here. In Lamongan. In this homestay. With these four people who started as strangers and became family. With all the students who called me "Miss" and the teachers and the SEA-Teacher coordinator who called me her child.
Tomorrow, I will leave. But a part of me will always stay. In the classroom. In the homestay. In Lamongan.
Day 27. This is not the end of the story. This is just the end of the telling. The story itself will continue, in the lives we touched, the lessons we learned, the love we gave and received.
The story continues. And so will we.
Goodnight, Lamongan. Goodnight, homestay. Goodnight, fan. Goodnight, everyone.
Day 28: The Day I Left a Piece of My Heart in Lamongan
This is the day. Twenty-eight days ago, I arrived as a stranger, nervous and uncertain, clutching my luggage and my fears. Today, I leave as someone else entirely—someone who has been broken open, filled with light, and stitched back together by the hands of people I will love for the rest of my life.
The alarm went off at 4:30 AM. Not because we had somewhere to be early, but because none of us could sleep. We had stayed up late, reluctant to waste our last night on something as mundane as rest. Now, in the darkness before dawn, we moved through the homestay like shadows, finishing the last of our packing, checking every drawer, every corner, every surface where a memory might have been left behind.
The homestay was naked now. Our clothes were gone. Our snacks were eaten. Our laughter no longer echoed off the walls. Only the ceiling fan remained, turning its lazy circles, bearing witness to our final moments. I stood in the middle of the living room, the same room where we had slept beside Bu Irma, where we had planned our lessons, where we had cried over keychains and letters. I closed my eyes and listened. The silence was deafening. The silence was everything.
Together with the Batch 11 from UNISDA and Irfan, we were there at the homestay savoring the last minutes we will be together. We ate breakfast for the last time. And took videos for the last time, lost track of time.
Pak Buyun came out of nowhere. He will be joining us to the airport. And Pak Azis. I had not written much about Pak Azis in my diary, but he had been there from the beginning—the chauffer, the man behind the scenes. He rarely spoke, but when he did, his words carried weight.
That was when everything felt real. We really are going home and these two will not be physically with us. They will be miles and miles and miles away.
No one knew what to say. Our tears explained everything.
We hugged. All of us. The kind of hugs that last a little too long, that squeeze a little too tight, that try to communicate what words cannot.
And just like that,, we left the homestay and the four students of Batch 11 of UNISDA.
The ride to Bu Irma's house was very emotional. Everything felt sad. Pak Buyun was the one driving, teasing us that it was okay to cry.
When we arrived at Bu Irma's house, it felt like my peace came. My mother is now here and I felt relief. She handed each of us a gift. I opened mine with anticipation and was so happy to have pieces of Bu Irma's collection. A gift that I will always cherish.
We continued our journey. Our luggage was loaded into the back of Pak Azis' car, the same suitcases that had arrived twenty-eight days ago, now heavier with souvenirs and lighter with memories.
The drive to Juanda airport took about three hours. I spent most of it with my face pressed against the window, watching Lamongan disappear. The tambak. The trees. The markets. The schools. I tried to memorize every detail—the color of the sky, the shape of the clouds, the way the light fell on the paddies. I knew I would forget some of it. I knew I would remember more.
We stopped at a small restaurant along the way—a place we had never been to before, a place that would now become forever meaningful simply because it was our last.
After lunch, we went straight to the airport. Every mile that we traveled, getting closer to the airport felt so exciting and heart breaking.
The airport in Juanda was not that chaotic, but my heart was in chaos. We gathered in a quiet corner near the check-in counters, the five of us and Bu Irma and Pak Azis and Pak Buyun and Irfan. This was it. The final goodbye. We decided to take a picture and that was when they broke gently to us that they needed to go, tears rolled immediately from my eyes. I was crying like a baby who got her lollipop stealed.
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We hugged each of them, one by one. The hugs were long and tight, the kind that try to communicate what words cannot. I hugged Pak Buyun and felt his steady presence one last time. I hugged Pak Azis and thanked him for all the invisible work he had done. I waved at Irfan, our Irfanch.
And then I hugged Bu Irma.
I don't know how long we stood there, wrapped in each other's arms. Long enough for people to stare. . Long enough for me to cry all the tears I had been holding back for twenty-eight days. Bu Irma didn't rush me. She just held me, rocking slightly, humming a song I didn't recognize.
We walked toward the benches, the five of us, our faces wet with tears. I turned around one last time. Three of them were already walking away, but Pak Buyun turned and looked back, just once.
I waved. And then I walked towards the bench sobbing. The farewell. The end of the journey. But not the end of the story.
I will come back. I don't know when. I don't know how. But I will come back.
Goodbye, Indonesia. Thank you for everything. Thank you for the skin infection and the Ferris wheel. Thank you for the zumba and the train rides. Thank you for Pak Buyun's clipboard and Pak Azis' patience.
Thank you for making me a teacher. This diary is finished. But the journey is not. It never is. A piece of me will always be in Lamongan.
Terima kasih. Sampai jumpa lagi. Thank you. Until we meet again.
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