The Climb

This is a late post, but I want to explain one of the best memories I have here so far. On September 14, the YALTers and some MCC workers climbed mountain Andong.  It was a steep and somewhat challenging climb, but a little ways into the hike, Valarie (YALTer) and I found that we were at the front of the pack.  That is when I suggested to her that we should not let anyone pass us because we have to be the first ones to the top.  We kept a steady pace and no one caught up to us.  I don’t think that anyone else knew it was a race though.  It would have been more intense if we agreed it was a race when we started. Nevertheless, Valarie and I sat at the top waiting for the rest of our friends to join us.  Mount Andong only took us close to 2 hours, so it is a relatively small mountain.  Last night most of the YALTers and some MCC workers climbed Mount Berbabu, which is a much longer climb (6-8 hours).  I wasn’t able to go because I’m sick with a cold (the Canadian definition of a cold). I haven’t heard back from them yet, but they could be climbing down the mountain right now.

Life as a Baby

I am a baby in a new world.  I have found this to be a relevant metaphor, first told to me by my YALT (YAMEN and SALT) coordinators.  Everyday life is foreign and even simple tasks are drastically different. I am learning how to eat, cross the street, talk, sit, use the eastern toilet, shower, shop, and more.  Whereas in Canada, I could do all of these things by myself without much effort.

I am staying a women’s dorm for Papuan university students here in Salatiga.  One morning I was trying to cut up a mango.  One of the girls, out of a generous spirit, reached for the mango and demonstrated how to cut it up in a more efficient way.  She sliced the entire mango and then proceeded to fetch me a fork.   My mango cutting skills have improved since then, but I was reminded that my way of doing things is probably wrong and most things must be re-learned.

After acquiring utensil skills and learning how to use Eastern toilets, I graduated to a toddler.  This life stage transition was marked by crossing the street while I cling to someone’s arm and cringe.   In Indonesia, people drive on the left side of the road.  The first time we approached a busy street with the intent of crossing it, everything in me was demanding that we should sprint across the street as fast as we could.  However, I have accepted the common, unspoken rule that you should walk at a steady, easy pace. Running is a bad idea because then the drivers cannot predict where you will dart next.  Often, we make it across one lane of traffic and then have to wait in the middle of the road until traffic is clear.  Mom, don’t freak out.  It’s what everyone does and the drivers expect it.

Yesterday, I turned 8 years old as I hopped onto a bicycle.  All the YALTers have different host family homes in Salatiga and we have to ride our bikes to language school.  Driving a bike in Canada is really not the same as Indonesia. For one, most of the traffic is motorcycles.  For two, there are only few street signs.  For three, the roads are short and curve often.  I haven’t gotten lost yet, but I won’t be surprised if I do.

We had our first day of language school today.  I hope to learn more than my vocab right now which consists of greetings, numbers, as well as: I want this; I like that; Where is the washroom?; What’s your name?; No spice; Thank-you.

I talk like a baby.  I know I must sound quite unintelligent to the Indonesian people I meet. This has been a struggle because I enjoy talking about abstract things and I really want to get to know the people I live with. 

I am just a vulnerable foreigner, trusting in the people that take care of me.  I hope to graduate to a double digit age (10 years old would be nice).  But for now, I have to accept my lack of control and my lack of knowledge. 

The Indonesia YALTers hiking