Global Veterinary Surgery

I’m not entirely sure how the topic came up during my half-day whirlwind tour of Jakarta (thank you, TripAdvisor!), but there I was—sweating through my eltaMD sunscreen—when my delightful guide Stella was trying to explain a lively celebration happening in a port neighborhood. After much thoughtful vocabulary searching, she landed on a rather unexpected word: circumcision. Yup, you read that right. I wonder how I got that description wrong? Turns out, it’s common here to throw a full-blown party for the occasion. Welcome to Jakarta!

With a population of over 12 million, and a large Muslim majority, I suppose I shouldn’t have been all that surprised. Still, not exactly on the top of my sightseeing bingo card.

Our tour also coincided with Jakarta’s birthday—June 14, a date that traces back to 1527. That means a 500-year anniversary in 2027, and I’m already mentally RSVPing. There are personal ties too: both my grandparents once lived here, and my mom was born in Batavia, as Jakarta was known in its Dutch colonial days. The name Jakarta itself means “City of Victory,” which sounds just dramatic enough for a place like this.

First stop: the Istiqlal Mosque—“Istiqlal” means independence, and the building is as symbolic as it is impressive. Fun fact: it was designed by a Christian architect. The dome spans 45 meters, representing 1945, the year of Indonesia’s independence. Right across the street? A Catholic cathedral, proudly parked there as a shining example that yes, different faiths can live peacefully side-by-side—sometimes just across the road.

The cathedral itself is like a hybrid: Protestant restraint meets Catholic bling. A little wooden cross, a little gold, something for everyone.

Outside, there’s a small hill with three crosses and a stone dramatically rolled to the side—which, let’s be honest, probably moonlighted as part of a Pesach-themed stage set at some point.

As we zipped through the city (and I mean zipped—Jakarta’s traffic is basically an extreme sport), I couldn’t help but marvel at the moped madness. Especially the green-jacketed drivers, who are basically Indonesia’s version of Uber: bookable via apps like Gojek or Grab, or just flag one down and hang on tight.

Next up: the National Monument, or Monas, a giant spire with a golden flame on top. You access the base via an underground tunnel, which is wonderful, because walking above ground at noon here feels like being sautéed in your own shoes. Inside, the story of Indonesia’s fight for independence is told in little dioramas. Let’s just say… the Dutch aren’t exactly the heroes of this tale. But don’t worry, Stella assures me: the Japanese occupation was apparently even worse. Yay?

And although the Dutch didn’t leave the best political legacy, they certainly left a lot of vocabulary. Stella rattled off a list:

• Gordijn = curtain

• Waskom = wash basin

• Benzine = gasoline

• Kantoor = office

• Koffiehuis = coffee house

You’re welcome, Bahasa Indonesia.

Jakarta’s streets are a universe of their own. Unofficial traffic guides wander between the cars, helping you squeeze through the chaos—for a small fee. Skip the tip and, according to Stella, your car may get a “mystery scratch.” Noted.

Of course, not everything sparkles. Poverty is very present, and a lot of people live below the poverty line. And while the Dutch did attempt to recreate their beloved canals here, in Jakarta’s sweltering humidity those charming waterways turned into stagnant, mosquito-infested puddles of doom.

To make matters more dramatic, Jakarta is sinking—fast. Thanks to relentless groundwater pumping and unchecked construction, the city is literally dropping by as much as 10 cm a year, making it one of the fastest-sinking cities on the planet. When we visited the harbor, part of it was already underwater. Gigantic sea walls now line the coast in an attempt to keep the ocean from claiming more real estate.

On our way back, Stella gave me a final warning: “Don’t go out on the main street after 9 p.m.—too dangerous,” she said. I nodded gravely, all while knowing full well that jet lag has me drooling on my pillow by 8:45 anyway.

Hi everyone, and welcome (back!) to the Global Veterinary Surgery Podcast! I’m Dr. Jolle Kirpensteijn, and I’m thrilled to relaunch this podcast for all the veterinary surgery nerds out there — you know who you are!

Every two weeks, I’ll be diving into the latest and greatest in veterinary surgery. We’ll break down fresh surgical articles, highlight the hottest news in our field, and sit down with some of the most interesting and inspiring veterinary surgeons from around the world. Expect insights, some spirited discussions, and maybe even a few laughs along the way.

You can listen to the podcast on all your favorite podcast platforms — Spotify, Apple Podcasts, you name it. And if you prefer to see my charming face while I talk shop, you’ll find full video episodes on our Global Veterinary Surgery YouTube channel.

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Quick travel observation from yours truly: Uber drivers in Phoenix seem to have collectively decided that silence is golden — or maybe they’ve just taken a vow of conversational poverty. My airport Uber guy kicked things off by politely asking if he could have a full-on phone date with his buddy while I was in the backseat. I said yes, because who am I to stand in the way of bromance? The next couple of drivers followed suit with short, curt answers that felt like they were conserving oxygen for reasons I can’t quite figure out. Most of them probably didn’t speak much English, which is totally fine because my Spanish, despite Duolingo’s tireless efforts, is still at the level where I might accidentally order a goat instead of guacamole.

But then came Julio. Julio actually spoke! And his opening line? “This is my last ride.” Which, honestly, felt a bit ominous until he clarified he just meant his last Uber ride of the day, not his entire existence. I’m in Phoenix for a site visit for this year’s Hill’s Global Symposium, and Julio’s been up since 4 a.m., carting humans around the desert. Now he’s off the clock and heading home to… pack for Cuba! Yes, Julio’s catching a flight at the highly questionable hour of 12 a.m., because apparently, vacations are for the sleep-deprived.

At this point, my brain is bubbling with questions. Cuba? Who’s in Cuba? Why Cuba? How Cuba?! Turns out Julio’s entire family — mom, brother, sister, and his two kids — are all there. Wait — your kids are in Cuba? I ask, trying not to sound like a confused owl. Julio just nods, and with that, the conversation door creaks shut, leaving me alone with my swirling curiosity and a growing list of unsolved Julio Mysteries.

It hits me — this is a story I’ve heard before. So many migrants leave their kids behind to work abroad and send money home, hoping to build a better life from afar. I wanted to ask Julio everything: How do you even get to Cuba right now? Aren’t there still a bunch of restrictions? Is he worried about the latest crackdowns? Is he a US citizen now? What’s life like in Cuba these days? But Julio’s already mentally sipping a mojito on a Havana beach, so I let it go.

Naturally, this all sends me down memory lane to the time when Americans could actually go to Cuba without needing a 37-step government approval process. Back then, Daniel, Daniel’s mom Romy, and I spontaneously booked a cruise with a glorious three-day stop in Havana — and we absolutely loved it. Visiting Cuba is basically time-traveling directly into the 1950s, complete with classic cars, retro buildings, and amenities that definitely wouldn’t pass a modern health inspection.

The first thing that smacked me in the face — other than the humidity — was the unmistakable scent of leaded fuel. Ah, childhood memories! That smell took me straight back to my youth, when nobody had heard of unleaded gas, and we were all just huffing toxins at the gas station like it was normal. Good times.

The Cuban people were lively, the food was incredible, and we even did one of those classic car tours where you cruise around in a convertible held together by hope, duct tape, and a prayer to Che Guevara. We hit all the tourist highlights and even popped into a local art museum, where the artwork had a very clear and very unsubtle message for the Cuban government — spoiler alert: it was not five-star reviews.

Sadly, those carefree travel days are over (for now), Romy has passed away, and the world feels like a very different place. But one day — mark my words — Cuba will open up again, and you better believe I’ll be first in line with my fedora and SPF 50, ready to order mojitos with my terrible Spanish.

Hasta la vista, Julio — enjoy that family reunion.

Oh, I was looking for Julia,” the elderly blonde lady announced, clearly scanning the crowd for a woman. And poof—there I was. “Sorry, that’s why I didn’t respond immediately.”

“No worries,” I said, “happens all the time. Nobody here knows how to pronounce my name anyway. That’s why I just go by ‘Joe’ when I order coffee. Or, really, anything that requires a barista to yell a name that vaguely resembles mine.”

Officially, my name is Frysian—an ode to my grandmother, or Beppe, Aafje, who hailed from Friesland, that small yet mighty province in the Netherlands. Friesland is where the cows are majestic, the ice skaters are faster than your internet connection, and the language is closer to Danish than Dutch—because, you know, marauding Danish Vikings did a little “rebranding” back in the day. I’m 25% Frisian by blood but exactly 1% fluent in the language.

Now, fast-forward to my arrival in New Jersey, where I find myself in an Uber, chatting with my driver, Ana. She has a thick Slavic accent, so naturally, I ask, “Where are you from?”

“Brazil,” she replies.

Darn. Once again, I have successfully mistaken Portuguese for a Slavic language. My linguistic detective skills remain questionable at best. I confess my mistake, and Ana laughs. Turns out, she comes from a family of doctors—father’s a doctor, uncle’s a doctor, brothers are doctors—but she? Nope. She wanted to see the world, so she moved to the U.S. and never looked back (except once a year when she visits home).

Ana’s accent remains delightfully thick despite years in the States. It reminds me of my late mother-in-law, who moved from Germany and spoke English for 70+ years… but still sounded like she had arrived fresh off the boat yesterday. I miss her dearly.

Then Ana gets excited. “You’re from Holland? My grandmother was Dutch too!”

“Aha!” I exclaim. “That explains the blonde hair and blue eyes!”

She nods. Apparently, there was a significant Dutch colony where she grew up in Rio. Her grandmother moved to Brazil at the age of five, but Ana barely remembers any Dutch words.

Speaking of Rio, I was there not too long ago. Beautiful city, but our first hotel? Let’s just say it was a hard pass. The door had clearly been broken into one too many times, there was no safe (which is literally the first thing I look for), and, in the grand finale, the toilet exploded, unleashing a Category 5 sewage tsunami. That was the moment I decided to abandon my budget-conscious ways and book the most expensive hotel near Ipanema Beach. Best. Decision. Ever.

Back in New Jersey, Ana drops me off in New Brunswick—a town with a solidly “previous-century” aesthetic but a promising facelift in progress. The silver lining? A proper Irish pub across from my hotel and a local ramen place that’s nothing short of life-changing.

And that’s where I ring in the Year of the Snake. So shed the old, folks—it’s time for something new!

New beginnings come in all shapes and sizes—sometimes it’s as small as changing your name at the coffee counter, and sometimes it’s as big as moving across the world, like Ana and I did. There’s something exhilarating about starting fresh in a new place, where nobody knows your name (or, more importantly, how to mispronounce it). A blank slate, a new adventure, and the chance to reinvent yourself—whether that means embracing a new culture, chasing a new dream, or just making sure your next hotel has a functioning toilet.

The moment I step into Demetria’s Uber, I know I’m in for a ride—not just physically, but spiritually, emotionally, and maybe even philosophically. She is a well-developed Southern black lady, draped in confidence and wrapped in a large wig that extended to big curls that waved up and down while she laughed. Her lashes extend so far they probably could touch the front window, and her nails? Lord have mercy—longer than a CVS receipt and brighter than the Las Vegas Strip.

“I take no shit,” she immediately declares with a grin, “but I am glad you’re ridin’ with me, baby.” And within two minutes flat, we are cackling like old friends at a family reunion.

Demetria is from Atlanta, and she wants to know why I’m here. But before I can explain, she drops this on me:

“You got a beautiful house, I just know it. You need to move back to Kansas and rent it out to me! I pay my rent on time, and I keep everything nice and tidy—even the yard! But if you got them crazy-ass colors in there? Child, I can’t live like that, I’m paintin’ over it. I’m just lettin’ you know upfront!”

And then she laughs. And I laugh. And it’s a moment.

She asks how long I’ve been married. I tell her, “Since 2006, but officially in the U.S. since 2016.”

“Damn! That’s a long-ass time.”

“Yep,” I say. “Long-distance relationships do wonders. Every time you start out fresh.”

Her face lights up. “My brother lives in LA! And he gay too! I love my brother. Best thing in the world. He got a partner, but guess what? One lives on one floor, the other on the other. Can you believe that?”

“Right,” I say.

“You say ‘right’ a lot,” she teases before launching into a monologue about how much she adores her big brother, how his partner gets on her nerves sometimes, and how she don’t tolerate nobody disrespecting them.

“I tell folks straight up: if you don’t like gays, don’t get in my damn car! The Lord don’t care if you Black, gay, or fat. He care what you did! It’s all love, baby. And love should reign.”

She pauses, looks at me in the mirror, and drops some Demetria wisdom:

“Look at me—I’m fat. And being fat ain’t good. But does that mean I can’t marry who I love? Hell naw! So why them people think they can tell gay folks or trans folks they can’t? God didn’t say that! And if anybody touches my big brother, I swear—I’ll kick they ass out my Uber!”

Then, outta nowhere, she shifts gears:

“Listen to this mess! Remember that big snowstorm? I got a four-wheel drive, so I was fine. But this one couple wanted me to come pick them up, and I was like, ‘Baby, your road is a damn ice luge. I ain’t riskin’ my life for no Uber fare.’ And this woman had the audacity to say, ‘Well, my husband does it all the time.’”

Demetria claps her hands mid-sentence, emphasizing every word.

“I. AM. NOT. YOUR. HUSBAND!”

So the woman cancels the ride.

“Can you believe that mess?! But I don’t give a damn. I took pictures of that death trap just in case Uber wanna ask questions. And guess what? I still got a 4.94 rating!”

At this point, I am in love with this woman.

Then a Cybertruck rolls past.

She scoffs. “You see that shit? People who drive those think they better than us. But you know what? They look like damn garbage trucks. Just flip open the back and toss your trash in.”

I nod. “Garbage in, garbage out.”

“And in the snow?” she adds. “Pure disaster!”

As we pull up to the airport, she leaves me with this gem:

“My two favorite words? ‘Bitch’ and ‘shit.’”

She cackles. “You don’t give a shit, bitch!”

“Wait, I do?” I say, caught off guard.

“Naw, baby! I’m just showin’ you how to use it in a proper sentence!”

And with that, she waves me off, still laughing.

PS Demeter, the Greek goddess of agriculture, fertility, and the harvest, is a powerhouse of maternal strength and seasonal drama. Best known for her role in the myth of Persephone, her daughter’s abduction by Hades sent her into such grief that she put the entire world on a starvation diet, inventing winter in the process. As the bringer of grain and growth, she’s basically the original farm-to-table goddess, ensuring crops flourish—but only when she’s in a good mood. Mess with her family, and you might just get an eternal famine as payback. You go Demetria!