A New Thread

It’s to where I’m starting to get used to things here… and maybe taking the difference of it for granted. Talking to Mom was a nice and solid reminder of home. It was familiar. So the moment I hung up, I was reminded how different things are here…

On my way out of the house, heading to work, I turn off the lights. I flip the switch up; that still seems weird to me. Hopping on my bike and starting down the road, I glance back at the Puncak mountains, shrouded by clouds today and setting the backdrop for green fields of rice and fruit. As I glide into town, the stares start. A bule on a bike!? Wha? I turn down the road that heads through the tightly woven kampung. Street bumps- or sleeping policeman- slow me down every 50 feet or so, they’re everywhere. An effective but annoying way to slow cars and mopeds down and protect the dozens of kids and hundreds of people walking on and across the winding road.

Along the road is a house, followed by a tiny Sunda restaurant, followed by a house, then a warung- a tiny shop selling the daily necessities. Then I get whiff of livestock somewhere and to my left I see a chicken coop and a goat stall tucked in between the houses. A quick searching peak down the alley in between houses reveals a labyrinth of sidewalks laced through the kampung. I see a simple but elegant mosque set back from the street, calling no attention to itself. And after I pass, there’s a break in the houses momentarily revealing Mt. Salak, the impressive, sleeping volcano looming over the rolling valley outside town.

“Hey mister bule!”(hey foreigner!) I look around- it’s a kid yelling from the local school as I pass. Everybody watches for my reply…by now I know, it’s best just to smile and keep going. Rolling on, another sleeping policeman and more stares as I approach an intersection. But it‘s a frickin goat looking at me! What the hell!? Him and a dozen others are tied to street signs along the crowded intersection and will be bought and sacrificed for Id Adha, the Muslim holiday coming up.

As I cross the intersection to a quieter road with no bumps, I start a nice glide down towards town. I spot a construction site off to the left, the men working busily. But none of their tools are recognizable. Their shovel is inverted compared to an American one, they use a basket type scoop instead of wheelbarrows, and a man pats down a fresh concrete mix with a board tied to a string, pulling up and releasing, pulling up and releasing. And even though the street is quieter, it isn’t long until there are tiny carts lining the road, selling buber ayam(chicken porridge) or bakso(meatball soup), fruit stands selling mangos, papayas and bananas, and other warungs selling drinks, cigarettes, coffee, medicine, snacks, whatever...

Before I hit the true chaos of the main road, I take the chance to think back to my talk with Mom. I realize then what a regular and ordinary thing that was. That’s what was nice about it. It seems though, the regular and ordinary is becoming less regular and ordinary now. I wish I could explain this place to people, and I guess I’ve just tried, but it will fall short of the feeling. That only comes from being here... in...