A World of People

The other day (ok, two weeks ago), I went to Java, the island of Indonesia which holds the capitol. This trip was a spur of the moment invitation from the director of Widhya Asih; I had come out of my bedroom and he asked if I would like to go to Java. I said yes, and ten minutes later I was sitting in the bus, sadly, naïve about what “going to Java” really means. Basically, it means that it takes about 5 hours, in one direction, on small, barely two lane roads which corner and curve and bump and jostle for the entire road.

During the drive, I had time to ask myself why I, and every one else, was going to Java in the first place. I thought that we must be going to some big meeting, something that would review the annual report, something that would greatly affect all of these important people I was sitting with. I started to wonder why I had come to Indonesia at all. I tried to think of what I liked about traveling anyways. I don’t like to be uncomfortable; I don’t like public transportation, I don’t like not knowing where I am and what I am supposed to be doing there. With that list of dislikes, I might as well stay home and venture occasionally to the neighborhood pool.

We arrived at our destination, and instead of being led into meetings, we were welcomed into the home of a newly wedded couple. Their wedding had been the day before, and everyone who had been in the bus knew the groom very well. Although even though they were very close with the groom, the men and women segregated, and besides greetings and goodbyes, the men and women hardly talked or acknowledged each other at all. We sat on the floor, and our hosts gave us some food, which we welcomed. They followed this food with more food: Rice, three types of chicken (one of which is called sate and is served mashed and then cooked on a stick), rice crackers, eggs, and fruit. I was stuffed. Unfortunately for me and my metabolism, I was sitting next to the grandmother of the newlyweds, and she kept offering me food. I would have a banana that she offered me, and then she would offer me another one. Later, someone explained to me that by not having at least seconds on everything, the host thinks the guest did not like the food.

This woman was older, in her late sixties or early seventies. She wore glasses, and because she was Muslim, she covered her head as well. Her face was defined by wrinkles, but she still had good skin. She couldn’t speak any English, or at least she didn’t speak in English, instead using Kristine to translate instead. After hearing that I was on my way (eventually) to university, she offered me advice, telling me to work hard in school, because that is the best way to achieve all of my ambitions. She asked what my ambitions were. I told her I wanted to be happy.

Kristine took out her camera and took a picture of us. I wrapped my arm around the grandmother sitting next to me, and she pressed her face against mine, smiling dearly. And with her soft cheek pressed against mine, I remembered everything. I remembered Kristine taking my picture, I remembered the girls at the orphanage, I remembered the couple I stayed with in Singaraja, I remembered Kristine’s niece. The people who make up your life are much more important than any thing that a person could ever own, really. Traveling gives me the opportunity to fill my life with people who I would never, ever meet otherwise, and in this way, it fulfills me. So no matter how much I complain about bug bites or public transportation or spicy food, it is all worth it because of all of the wonderful people who I meet through all of these troubles.

I will probably never see my new friend again, but that doesn’t matter, because in just a few hours, she has touched my heart and affected my thoughts more than any class or a number of people ever have.