I loved my room in Indonesia. It was tiled, with the walls painted a pale, pale green. There was my bed, my red folding chair, my desk/cupboard and a dressing table. Anything that needed to be hung up was hung from hooks on the door, all my clothes were put on the shelves underneath my desk, whilst my books, tapes and other 'special' things were in the shelves above. The room itself was maybe 2 x 5 metres, with windows at each end (north and south). At the southern end, there was a balcony where I'd go to enjoy a sleepless night, or to smoke. Every afternoon, a breeze would sweep through, and it was always clean, bright and sunny. I can remember so many tiny details - down to the powerpoints and the corners where the dust collected. Unfortunately, it's no longer my room, after I left,Mbak Sari moved in. It's a good thing for her - her own bedroom had no light and it was right above the garage. I often wonder if either she or Mas Tatok had given up their room, so that I could have it.
I can, nearly 3 years later, recall every detail of my house. Some of my memories of Yogya itself are fading away, but my house remains sharply in my memory. I wonder where I'd sleep if I went back, would I get the 'family' guest room, or the proper 'guest' guest room? I can't tell you how strong my desire is to pulang and reacquaint myself with it all. Even more so, I'd love to have someone with me, just so I could reminisce and say things like "This is where I nearly injured myself each and every time I ran down the stairs" and "this is where Mama fell on her butt, when we were cleaning the fishpond" and "this is where I made a complete idiot of myself, at an AFS meeting".
I'm sure, that if I pulang, the memories and experiences will hit me like a sledgehammer. And I also know that it won't be the same anymore. It won't be the same, because I won't have 'my' room, nor will my friends be there. Much like my 'home' here in Aus - I don't have my room anymore, it's now Camilla and Janita's room.
Despite the shit that I went through, I loved my life there. Every school morning, Mbak Sari would knock on my door at 6am - "Bangunlah... bangun - sekolah". She said it so softly, but it always woke me. I'd grab my towel off the balustrade, and race for the kamar mandi. It was a typical kamar mandi, with the walls and floor tiled. Half the room was raised up on a platform, which was where the mandi, the gayung and toilet were. After hanging my clothes up on a peg, I'd use the gayung to splash chilly water over myself, then lather, and more to wash the soap off. Stand over the drain to brush my teeth, as I heard the melodies, and the 'tok-tok' of various food-sellers. Get dressed, race back to my bedrom to arrange my jilbab, and to make sure that I was carrying my dictionaries. Run pell-mell down the stairs, avoid slipping on the rug, and go sit on the lounge, waiting for everyone else, while I put my shoes on. Sum, our pembantu, would have breakfast (toast with sugar, or chocolate sprinkles, or donuts) ready on the coffee table, then she'd turn her attention to dealing with my spoilt little brother, who never wanted his mandi in the morning.
Soon enough, we'd all pile into the car, and Mama and Bapa would drive us to school, through the early morning macet. At the school gates, Mas Tatok, Mbak Sari and I would kasih salam by mencium Mama and Bapa. You know 'cium' as meaning 'to kiss', well it also means 'to sniff'. And this is what kasih salam is. I'd take their hand, as if I was going to kiss the back of it, but instead, I just sniffed, elegantly.
Mas Tatok would disappear quickly, but Mbak Sari and I would usually stick together. MUHI was an amazing school. 3 grades and 1234 students. It was laid out along three sides of a basketball court and was 3 storeys high. My class, 2E, was in the far corner of the third floor, so I would usually lift my skirt and run up the 96 or so steps. And the boys would hoot and shout, because I was displaying my ankles.
Once in class, my seat was up the front, next to Mbak Sari. Around us were her friends, Dyah, Rita, Fitri and Baeti, whom I got to know well. Unfortunately for me, under jilbab all the girls looked the same, so I could tell the boys apart earlier. I never learnt the names of the teachers - there were too many of them, and besides I never paid attention in class. 2E were apparently the naughtiest class - indeed we made a lot of noise, and quite a few teachers walked out.
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© 1999 The Archangel Cameo
