Going, or is it coming, home?

Nakao Village, near Lampung, Sumatera
Yudhie's father's house, Granny walking in the yard

Well, at first it’s hard to say. Both seem to mean the same thing, but going home emphasizes leaving somewhere that isn’t home—in bahasa, berangkat, ‘leaving’—whereas coming home resonates with feelings of welcome and safe haven—again, in bahasa, datang, ‘arriving’. The usual word for going home, though, is pulang, but that implies you’re returning to where you started from. As much as I feel now that my time in Yndonesia was the result of pulang, I don’t think I can really say that, not till next time.

I was going to visit my adopted son Yudhie, and his home was to be my home, even though I’d never been there before or even seen it. Little did I know that what awaited me was more than I’d expected.

My passage to Yndonesia was accomplished in two stages, first from Portland to Tokyo, then from Tokyo to Jakarta. There was an eighteen hour layover in Tokyo which I was not prepared for. I knew there was a layover, but I thought I could stay overnight in the airport somehow. I’d read about there being rooms one could rent, to rest and freshen up. I just assumed these would be overnight accommodations. I was wrong. The Narita airport closes promptly by eleven at night. I had to book a room in a nearby hotel. Luckily, this was an easy task. I didn’t sleep much, but spent the night in meditation.

Just before dawn I opened the east-facing window in my fourteenth floor suite and jotted some thoughts that came to mind as I listened to the city waking up.

On the flight from Portland to Tokyo, the passenger next to me pretended that I wasn’t there, but on the flight from Tokyo to Jakarta, my neighbor was a Chinese Indonesian man living in the States who was on his way home to Bandung to visit his ailing mother, and he and I struck up a friendly conversation almost immediately. What a blessing! He ended up being a Christian, and so we were able to share many good insights and experiences. By the end of the flight we were already good friends, and he stayed with me after we got off the plane. Between the two of us we managed to find our way through the bureaucratic maze that lay ahead.

For the incoming foreigner, especially one visiting for the first time, the reception given us at the airport seemed rather rough and even slightly menacing. It wasn’t obvious in which line to queue up, and at first we got into the wrong line. First, you must get in line to buy your visitor’s visa (even though it might be denied at the immigration wicket in the next line). Both of us were getting the thirty day visa. That costs twenty-five dollars, payable only in American greenbacks in the exact amount. That accomplished, we joined the queue to pass through immigration.

My friend seemed to get through with no hassle, and as it turned out, so did I, but not so easy for an Argentine woman and her son, who were just ahead of me. Unfortunately she was having a problem because she didn’t speak English, and the officers didn’t speak Spanish. I would have liked to help, but this wasn’t allowed. Eventually, they were also passed. Soon it was my turn. I gave the officer my passport and visa payment receipt and a card showing the two addresses where I would be staying, one in Tangerang, the other in Singaraja.

‘What is the purpose of your visit? Business, tourist, visiting relatives?’ he asked me, in clipped American English. ‘Visiting my son, and some friends in Bali,’ I responded. He looked me over—obviously a well-fed American senior with white hair and beard, hardly a threat to national security and not likely to be planning to disappear in the country—and then read my name aloud from my passport. ‘Norman Frank Gorny,’ he pronounced each syllable with measured severity, and then quickly smiled and with a chuckle told me, ‘When you’re in Bali, tell them, “my name is Nyoman,”’ which really took me by surprise. I wondered, what did he mean? Well, I will tell you later.

Yudhie, and Moda Fedora with wife and son
at the waterfront in Singaraja, Bali

He handed my passport, now fully stickered and stamped, with my address card back to me, and seeing I was confused where exactly to go, he motioned me to the rear of his wicket. I just am not a world traveler, not yet anyway. Maybe if this keeps up, I will be. Passing into the aisle behind the immigration wickets, I followed the rest of the people who all seemed to know where they were going, and eventually found myself at the baggage carousels and finally at the exit gates. I didn’t have any luggage checked, only two pieces of carry-on, and so I saved myself that trouble.

Not knowing if Yudhie would be there waiting for me, I was thinking about where I could find a pay phone to call him. Suddenly I found myself heading for a barricade lined with people waiting for arriving passengers. Some were holding up signs with people’s names written on them. Looking at this line up, my eyes fell on a young man pressed against the barricade, smiling and waving energetically—it was Yudhie! He pointed to his left and started running in that direction. I followed on my side of the barricade, and in a few seconds we were standing together, smiling and excited.

Yudhie and Ayah at a rest stop
at Baturraden Hot Springs, Purwokerto, Java

We don’t have a photo of our meeting and first moments together, but I think it’s an event neither of us will forget. Some things can’t be photographed anyway, nor compete with all the facets of a moment that is forever recorded in the heart—sights, sounds, feelings. This is true of most of what we experienced together during this home stay. We were too busy living and enjoying the time together, to stop and photograph it. Real life is that way, hard to capture on film, and when you do have a lot of photos, sometimes it’s an ironic form of still life that you can enjoy later only as a spectator.

Romanós, known to some by his passport name as Norman Frank Gorny, and to his son in Yndonesia as Ayah, was home for the first time. Now, to catch a taxi!

Next… Taken for a ride