Returned to Oz

Everyone keeps saying, in strong Australian twangs, “You’ve come full circle”. And I suppose I have, ending in the very same place I left a year and ten months ago. After a year working in Indonesia and travel stints in Canada and South America, with dread and an empty bank account I returned to my hometown.

I was scared that I had changed and more that I hadn’t. I was terrified of Australia and Australians and, in particular, the accent. And so I hid from the quaint, beachside town. I hid from my friends and telecommunication. Locked in a weatherboard house, I dreamt of other places.

But eventually cultural cringe subsided and I finally left the house. I became romantic and wistful, and I began to love this sun-drenched country once again.

While I thought I would be soon moving on, I stumbled upon employment at a local newspaper. And in an instant my trajectory changed. No more suitcases. No more backpacks. No more coming and no more going. In 2010, I am staying put, under clear skies and amid gumtrees, with sand forever in my bed.

At least as long as I do

Last week I moved, again. I packed up 40 kilograms of possessions, divided them in two piles: Those needed for backpacking in Spain, those I’d take with me to my next fixed address in Amsterdam.

I was clearing up scraps of paper, train tickets and other bits of rubbish I always attach excessive sentimentality to. In place of people that can’t be brought along. I put on Cold Chisel because I needed a rock that afternoon. Soundtrack to a teenagehood driving on open roads for hours, where you never really moved from the one place. My Australian childhood. Working out exactly what that is requires comparative study.

Hej Hej Denmark. Hola Spain: go easy on me. Only credibility I’ve got is a pure bloodline and a surname as common as pan (that´s bread in the language I am far more comfortable with). Wondering if Spain will be one of my anchor points, or if this is just a pilgrimage of obligation. Often try to work out which countries will make the cut in the long run, which ones will just blur in nostalgic appreciation for the travel calling. Yesterday I changed direction walking and tracked a man in the street for a few minutes because he was speaking Indonesian on his mobile.

It’s New Years but I’m not making any new resolutions. Are you finally getting old when the anniversaries roll around, and you realize that to get things done, you’re just going to have to work at it everyday? Some mornings I forget that, others I get myself back on track. When I was little I didn’t even know you had to make that kind of an effort once you’d grown up.

In transition, on a mission

I started 2009 cutting my hair really short. I’m leaving it to grow as I leave it. I have a mission. I’m in transition.

In 2009, I loved, I hid, I pretended, I lost, I told the truth, I hurt, I forgive, I made friends, I got inspired, I struggled, I worked hard, I learn.

I am now in waiting, which makes me nervous. Future possibilities fill my heart with excitement. But the thought of failure scares me and puts me down in seconds. Jakarta is like a demanding lover that you love and hate simultaneously. Or at least, that is how I feel.

If things don’t go as planned. I will view my life like in Greek tragic art. It’s easier to endure failure if you can blame it on superhuman gods. After that, I will try again.

Thinking of a resolution

I’ve made enough New Year’s resolutions to understand that my resolutions are almost always far-fetched.

At least ten years ago one of my resolutions was to stop eating meat. The timing couldn’t have been more right, as it was then that the great economy crisis hit the country right where it hurts the most: the colon.

When the clock stroke at midnight this New Year, I was wide awake on my over possessive bed, focusing on my handwriting, which had gotten pretty “tidier” by the year.

Tossing and turning in a semi-deprived state of consciousness, flashes of my striving to achieve my resolutions came to mind—in montages. Fiddling with my might; not a pretty sight.

I once vowed to avoid speaking in slangs, for fear of contributing to the “destruction” of Indonesian language. And then there was the time when I set out on a quest to understand the true meaning of the concept of love, which brought me to my semi-deprived state of consciousness. And then there was also that time when I vowed to keeping my hair forever green.

It becomes clear that I am not to make any new resolutions this year, but to continue with my quest. Only this time, in a better way.

So here's a photograph of me thinking of a resolution,

Joking of catching the terrorist

My boyfriend used to joke of how Indonesians don’t have a good sense of humor. Oh, Indonesians joke and laugh but more often on stuff that are actually not funny. TV producers use slapstick comedy and shallow riddles in their comedy shows and get high ratings for that to the frustration of media workers working for them. Very rarely do we use irony.

The Calendar

I wanted to put up a post for Annisa, thinking that it would be really fun to write something about the origin of birthday cakes. But then sudden changes of wind made me think of this little vignette, a short story that has been running amok in my mind for some time now.

***

One of the things that she found really difficult to do is ripping off the pages of the calendar. She was sentimental like that.

If only she wasn’t five years of age, it wouldn’t have been a problem. But she was, indeed, that young when she told her mother in a tone that was almost apologetic about how she couldn’t sleep because of that.

“I just can’t do it,” she cried.

The first time she told her mother, she was too busy cooking to listen. There were lots of things to be done in the house, and the mother herself hadn’t been able to make enough time to cater her own needs. There was, of course, no maid in the house.

She had decided early in marriage that she would not allow anyone else to take care of her babies. Outside influences were, for her, exactly the way they sounded to her.

Unfamiliar.

Little things or a personal interpretation of daily semiotics based on impulsive fleets of the heart

Growing up makes you forget.

I was walking solo down through TIM at sundown. ‘I love this place at this hour,’ I thought to myself.
The furious heat was calmed by the cool breeze. ‘Why is it always breezy here? This is so nice,’ I thought to myself.
I passed by food stands, catching whiffs of delicious conversation laced with the aroma of pempek, soto sulung and sate kambing.  ‘Yummy, this smells so good,’ I thought to myself.

A pot-bellied, middle-aged man who wore shorts, a striped khaki shirt, a navy blue beret and orange Crocs walked by me, spotted my smile and tipped his hat off to me. ‘My, what a nice man’, I thought to myself.

Neoliberalism indirectly muddies economy, bans presidential candidates in Acronymesia

In a turn of events that has already come to be known as the dirty neoliberal conspiracy, all six presidential and vice presidential candidates have been banned from participating in the upcoming election, and the heart of the country’s economy is literally covered in mud.

The Oh-So-Significant ‘Others’

As far as absurdity goes in my daily job, this certainly beats looking Sri Mulyani right in the eye or sleeping under a highway.

Wondering if the pillars ahead are real or cardboard, it struck me that this is the first time I have ever been inside a church. No, there was that time back in high school when I accidentally walked in before a mass was about to start, but that was because I mistook the place for band’s rehersal studio.

This is not a mass, but still the awkwardness feels tingly; more so because the gentleman speaking to the audience, which now includes myself, starts to talk about Islam, the nation’s largest religion in terms of followers.

Being one of those followers, I have always been somewhat enclosed in a cocoon separating us as Muslims from ‘the others’ Christians, Catholics, Buddhists and so on. ‘We’ are engrossed in our own discussions about ‘them’, ‘the others’ whose beliefs differ from us.

I Heart Kemang

When I tell locals that I live in Kemang, the first thing a lot of them say is, “Oooooh, Kemang. A lot of bule [Westerners] live there.” Of course all the restaurants, bars and boutiques attract foreigners, but there’s a whole lot more to Kemang than coffee and couture.

The Contrast

Kemang is an area of stark contrast: You have modest kampungs through the back streets, which run parallel to enormous houses for the rich. There is plenty in between, like my kos, which is like a share house.

This is a family's house in Kemang, complete with a garuda