froginmythroat (FIMT)

WARNING: The following post contains relatively unprocessed inner thoughts regarding the experience of leaving one country (Indonesia) after 6 months of living there. Parental guidance recommended.

All good things come to an end is a suitably apt cliché that captures but a smidgen of what it feels like to have left Indonesia. As I sit here in my room on the 4th floor in my air-conditioned tower in the Philippines, I queue some Indonesian top 20 hits, lie back and reflect on what was:

A close-knit local neighbourhood – local kids who would play on their bicycles in the afternoon, call my name in the street, and pinch fruit from my garden (the little blighters). Visiting the corner store most other days, a 1 min walk down what felt like a country road.

The dirty old lady – Ibu Ani, neighbour and chain smoking middle aged liberal lady in a very conservative locality. Her husband had a second wife. She liked to talk about sex, try and get me to kiss local girls, and grab my balls whenever she could get the opportunity.

The girl – Era. the local girl next door (literally), someone I would hang out with most nights after work. Despite broken English and broken Indonesian, despite vastly different life experiences and current life circumstances and environments, this was someone with whom I shared a level of intimacy – a girlfriend, of sorts, with no chance of future prospects (marriage) unless I became Muslim. Can we build something together that works afar? The only way is to be honest. Can we try? Can I try? My intellect tells me I can’t, but sometimes I have flushes of hope and reversals of that dominant opinion. She has poor time management skills.

Auntie of the girl – Bunda. An obese lady who provided her humble home every evening as a place where I could met with Era. Her young daughters would do their homework, sometimes asking for help with English, whilst we would watch Indonesian TV and joke about love or her grumpy husband. I would rent her motorbike, sometimes it would be a new model, sometimes her nephew’s noisy smoky “motor pungo” (crazy motor).

Language learning – learning a language and being able to use it everyday is immensely enjoyable. Trying to decipher text messages from Era using a computer-based dictionary is like trying to crack a code. I would study Indonesia language study guides and listen to Indonesian pop music VCDs with Indonesian subtitles I would try to translate.

The sensations – lying down to sleep at night in a big empty double bed staring at the bedroom walls coloured pink, with the fan rotating in the corner just circulating the heat. Cold pailing (throw a bucket of cold water over your body, also known as taking a shower)

My colleagues – devout Muslims, trying but failing to understand me, an unbeliever. Lots of light hearted banter, especially about love and relationships. Habib – my Bangladeshi colleague and flatmate, my connection to that exotic South Asian sub-continent. Discussions of the Hindi religion with him and Desh.

The religion – Islam, and the visible and invisible aspects of it. On one level my colleagues are just like any one else. On another, their very thought processes are very much anchored in their religious beliefs.

The job – the most eye-opening part of the job was realising how much economic activity goes on amongst the destitute poor. “Man has to work” Habib would say, and that includes the poor. The poor engage in lots of activities. Making bricks for less than a dollar a day. It’s amazing that the tasks they perform earn them so little. What are the structural conditions that permit such an arrangement?

The emotion I felt when leaving…..can not be recalled in words, can only be relived through listening to music, Indonesian music… Airports are a lonely place to make the last phone call to a loved one (Era), saying goodbye for what could be forever. A big feeling of loss – I had friends there, a network, a life. How to describe that sensation of something that was but no longer is? Gone, evaporated into the mist and memory of past time. Nought but a blimp in our histories. Existing only as a potential in myself and the others with whom I shared the experience, lying dormant waiting to be revived on our next encounter. But when could that ever be, in this geographically separated and self-purpose divergent post-modern world? It doesn’t seem like it can, and that’s why it hurts. I need someone to talk to now. Can I talk to Era? Moving places is always heart wrenching. 6 months should be allowed to re-establish oneself in a new domain. How often can I keep doing this? Or should I be consolidating, seeking stability, settling down?