At home in Taman Ayu

Yudhie's street in Taman Ayu
His apartment is the first floor of one of the houses on the right

Where was I? Oh yes, ‘…go where you know people and live as they live, not as a tourist.’  Perhaps this may seem the less adventurous route, but it makes a lot of sense, especially when you’re in a very different sort of country and culture.

My ticket from Tokyo to Jakarta on ANA

It’s still the 20th of December.
My plane from Tokyo arrived promptly at three o’clock in the afternoon. My fellow passenger and I successfully made it through Immigration, then parted ways. My new son and best friend Yudhie was waiting for me patiently at the barricade, then found a reliable taxi, and we engaged rush hour traffic on the Jakarta-Tangerang toll way. By the time we arrived at Yudhie’s apartment in Taman Ayu, it was late afternoon. What a relief to be home! The apartment was comfortable. Though he shares it with roommates, two young women from Manado, Sulawesi, who are also teachers in nearby schools, they are both home for Christmas holidays. We will have the place to ourselves for the better part of two weeks.

Ruang tamunya - the living room

It really felt like home, too. Strange how you can feel at home in a place where you’ve never been before and sometimes have never seen. That’s how it was for me. Home is always a place where you feel wanted, and therefore, safe. Yudhie showed me around the house. They have the first floor of a two-storey townhouse. The upstairs has a separate entrance, so the apartment is quite private. The girls share the larger of two bedrooms, and Yudhie and I, when at home, would share his slightly smaller room. It was a nice ‘starter’ home for three new teachers, equipped with most of the necessities of daily life. I unpacked my bags, showed Yudhie the gifts I brought from America for him, his roommates, and Dwi, and then, I had my first meal.

Dapurnya - the kitchen

Yudhie had prepared rice, and some curried veggies and fish. It was cold by the time we sat down to eat, but I will always remember that first supper. Soon I would learn that you haven’t eaten a meal in Yndonesia if you haven’t eaten rice. Rice in all of its forms, but especially nasi putih, plain white rice, steamed, morning, noon and night, and at every opportunity throughout the day. It didn’t take long for me to expect it at every meal, and I never tired of all the things that came with it. We finished off with coffee and some Turkish delight that I brought from the States. I’d told Yudhie about it, but he’d never eaten it before. From the first day, the two of us were experiencing so many new things that we lost count. Best of all was finally to meet each other in person.

Sudut doa, rak buku dan mejanya
Prayer stand, book shelf and desk

Nightfall. It was still rather warm, so to cool off the bedroom where we would sleep, we turned on the air conditioner. We traded off who would sleep in the bed and who got to sleep on the mattress on the floor, but before we retired for the night, we prayed together before the ikons in Yudhie’s room. The oil lamp was lit, a pinch of incense was burned, we venerated the cross and recited the traditional Orthodox prayers in English from memory, and then offered thanks in our own words. It was a perfect ending to a very long, sometimes arduous, day.

Though I had to endure the rigors of a long air journey, Yudhie labored to ready his place for me, to make me feel at home. Everything we had to do to get to this moment was worth it.

Dhóxa tó Theó.
Kemuliaan bagi Allah.
Glory to God.

Next… Jalan-jalan Tangerang

Taken for a ride

After we made our first acquaintance in the real world, Yudhie and I went in search of a taxi to ‘carry us’ home, to his apartment in Tangerang, which is a suburb of giant Jakarta. The Sukarno-Hatta airport where I arrived is, in fact, in Tangerang, but even that suburb is vast. Over eight million people live in Jakarta proper, but the total population of the metropolitan area is about eighteen million. When you see the traffic on the roads, you have no problem believing it. Yudhie took the lead as we waded side by side through a torrent of taxi drivers, each aiming to latch on to us.

Yudhie kept silently waving them away until he suddenly found the driver he wanted, told the man our destination, and negotiated the cost. I was puzzled, but trusting, and simply followed along. We hurried through the crowd out of the arrival zone and into a parking lot. There, the driver showed us his vehicle, a shiny, late-model SUV, and helped us load my bags into the back, and we got in. The taxi was hemmed in by other vehicles, but with careful maneuvering and the help of a parking attendant, the taxi broke free and into traffic. I asked Yudhie, ‘What was all that about?’ referring to his choice of taxis.

This is where I want to digress and tell you about the down side of Indonesia. Notice I am not now speaking of my homeland Yndonesia.

Before I started my trip, I spent a lot of time studying the country, using the internet and books like Lonely Planet guides. I also have a friend in Portland who is an American of my generation, who is married to a Balinese woman, Ibu Anna whom I will introduce later. My friend also tried to advise me, and some of his advice was valid, but at least for me, some of it wasn’t. The oddest thing Lawry told me was, ‘Going to Indonesia is like going on a very bad camping trip.’ Now that I’ve been there, I think I know what he means. If you’re expecting an Americanese tropical theme park, you’re in for trouble.

The infrastructure of Indonesia—the road system and certain public services—can be very poor in comparison to the United States, but that is really an unfair comparison. I thought I could rent a car and drive across Java to the ferry in Banyuwangi and thence to Bali. Lawry said, ‘Don’t even try it.’ He was quite right. The amount of time it would’ve taken and the expenses and risks involved could have spoiled our trip. We chose instead to fly to Bali, and that was the right choice. On the other hand, we did take trains, taxis, buses, angkots (mini-buses) and ojeks (motorcycle taxis) to go everywhere, and safely.

Inside a typical angkot (passengers removed)

As for the ‘very bad camping trip,’ I’m sure Lawry was referring to the fact that, except in public buildings and homes of the some of the middle class, Western toilets are unknown—in some villages, toilets are unknown, but there’s bushes for privacy—and the same goes for hot showers. If you don’t confine yourself to high end restaurants but eat at warungs (food stalls, some of them portable) or in villages, yes, you can eat bad food and get very, very sick. Then, too, there are insects that bite and can carry disease. Don’t drink tap water. Watch out for iced drinks. The list goes on and on.

My own personal warning about the country is this: Don’t think you can just rent a car at the airport and drive to your destination. You may be able to do this in Denpasar, Bali, the other international airport, but don’t try it in Jakarta unless you were born there and learned to drive there. An American, if he could even find a rental car, would probably crash it within his first five minutes of driving on the road leading out of the airport. There seems to be more motorcycles than cars, and they flow around car traffic in huge swarms, filling in the spaces between vehicles like water flowing around rocks in a stream.

What you do is, rent a car with a driver. It cost Yudhie and me only about 400,000 rupiah (about $45) to rent an air conditioned car with driver for the whole day of Christmas Eve, so we could attend the Orthodox services in Jakarta. You pay any toll road fees (always under a dollar), gasoline (for our day of use it was 11 liters for 50,000 rupiah, about $5½), and the driver’s lunch allowance, about 30,000 rupiah (about $3½). For the average Indonesian, this cost is exorbitant, but for any foreign visitor, it is a bargain, because it saves you from any number of risks—car trouble, accident, getting lost.

Ojeks (motorcycle taxis) for hire — generally safe

But back to the way Yudhie chose a taxi. Since our driver did not speak English, I asked Yudhie when we were on the way home, why he rejected the other drivers. Was it because they charged too much? His answer surprised me, but after I thought about it, it made sense. Many people posing as taxi drivers have dishonest motives. They will overcharge you, using a tricky meter, or they will take a very long route to the destination. Even worse, they might drive you to a rendezvous point where accomplices will rob you. Yes, there are such risks. How Yudhie knew who was legit, I still don’t know.

A typical warung (food stall, eatery) in Bali

I thought I should tackle some of the down side of Indonesia before I go on to describe the Yndonesia that I know at least a little because I lived there for three weeks. Three weeks, is that all? Yes, but even in three weeks you can get at least some idea of what a place is like. My stay there whetted my appetite for more and, God willing, I’m Yndonesia-bound. Next time, and each time, I want to get more of the people and the land under my skin. As for getting ‘taken for a ride’ I admit this is always a possibility wherever you go. My best advice is to go where you know people and live as they live, not as a tourist.

Next… At home in Taman Ayu

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

At home

At home, in Yndonesia.

Actually, I have several homes in the land of Yang, even though I was only there for three weeks. I have a home in the megalopolis of Jakarta, another in the serene lion city of Singaraja, and finally in tongue-twistingly named Purwokerto, in the volcanic shadow of Gunung Slamet, mother of hot springs.

Why do I spell the country with a Y instead of an I? Because it’s not the country tourists see and rave about: it’s another Yndonesia, rustic and unmanageable, the land of Yang. And why Yang? It’s a very common word in bahasa Indonesia, a relationship word with five meanings all starting with W—which, who, what, whose and whom—and what seems most important in this land is relationships.

Everyone and everything is connected to someone and something else. You just can’t not belong in Yndonesia. You are part of a family, a clan, a village, a band of brothers. The whole country seems to be a family to one another, with all the good and bad features of family life. For me it was easy to be at home there, because everywhere such welcome was extended to me, that it felt like being a member of that family. Warm is not just a temperature, but the nature of the heart.

Finally, I call my new home Yndonesia because for me it is the land of Yes. It’s what comes of saying Yes, always the unexpected but never strange, always home, wherever the road leads, because we follow Him who goes before us. Yes, He is always already wherever He sends us, having gone to prepare a place for us, not only in the world to come, but in every world.

Humbly, I offer some few glimpses of my homes in Yndonesia.

Next… Going, or is it coming, home?