Part XXII:

That moment when you pull up to your house after being gone for 11 days and your 2 and 6 year old neighbors see you and run squealing and shrieking into your arms.

I’m happy and excited and my heart is full and today was hard and hot and frustrating and exhausting. It’s Indonesia.

I hear my little friends squealing and laughing outside and although part of me wants to go outside and play with them, it’s also almost 9pm (my bedtime) and I’m wearing shorts (inappropriate) and I already took two cold showers today (not asking for another) and oh yeah, the smoke that has descended on this city for the last five weeks is extremely dangerous to my health and I really shouldn’t be running around outside.

On the other side of my house I hear chanting and marching from my dutiful students. Moments ago, it sounded like they were surrounding my house. But then I realized they were only walking past my house to get new uniforms from the teacher’s house next door. A good 100 students excitedly murmuring and passing uniforms back and forth.

I’m reading the blog of a previous Fulbrighter in Semarang, struggling to navigate it on my phone but I have no other option as I’m out of internet data on my modem until I buy a new sim card. As I’m reading, Astrid comments back on her photo and says “thanks mack!!!” and I feel warm and fuzzy inside because someone called me Mack – and not because my name is too long and they can’t pronounce it, but because through the chaos of the last month and seeing Astrid and the others in Jakarta last week, our relationship has moved from supervisor and grantee to… friends. And lying on my bed in the middle of a smoky jungle in the heart of Southeast Asia, 10,000 miles from anything familiar, surrounded by all these sounds of children and insects and birds and generators… I needed that familiar reminder of a friend calling me Mack.

Scrolling through facebook and I see so many pictures of pumping patches, boots, and colorful leaves. I miss fall! Instead, I’m sitting here sweating my ass off trying to decide on the most conservative outfit I can wear that also involves the least amount of clothes.

“Miss, will you eat lunch with us?”

I’m sitting at the entrance to the asrama (dorm) chatting in Bahasa with the security guard. It’s 2pm and school just finished. I left my class and began to walk the short distance to my house to drop my things and grab the documents to take to immigration. But the security guard, whose name I can never remember, jumped out of his chair when he saw I’d returned from Jakarta and called, “duduk! duduk!” (Sit!) So I sit outside his hut and we chat in Bahasa, while also watching the students line up outside their classrooms and begin to march towards us.

Marching and chanting. It’s the perpetual sound that carries across SMA 5 at all hours of the day. Class by class, they march from the field to the asrama. Many giggle excitedly when they see me outside, they wave and call, “good afternoon, miss!” When one of the 11th grade classes passes by, two girls duck out from the line and run up to me. Sheepishly the ask, “Miss, do you want to eat lunch with us?” Aw! My heart! Had I not already gone to lunch with bu Tisia and was not on my way to the immigration office I would have jumped at the offer. Instead, I explained that I had to go to immigration but, maybe I could have dinner with them instead? With huge smiles on their faces, they agree and tell me they will come to my house later to take me to dinner 😀 YES. I’m excited for them but I’m also excited that I don’t have to go alone.

Tomorrow (Wednedsay) is a holiday – the start of the Islamic New Year. So with no school, many of the students have gone home for the day to be with their families. Thus, the usual regimented schedule is gone and I have no idea what time dinner is. Regardless, I’ve been gone so much that I can’t remember what the daily routine is. Most of the time I just listen for the chanting to pick up in intensity and then the voices began to move from one side of my house to another. But tonight, I have friends. I open my blinds and sit in my main room (which I usually try to avoid because there is no AC) waiting for my visitors. At 5:30 on the dot, four girls pass by my window and wave at me. I jump up and meet them at my front door. “Hi Miss! Dinner?” “Yes! Let me just grab my fork and spoon!”

Walking to the dining hall, we laugh as I mispronounce each of their names. They guide me to the table where there are perfectly portioned plates of vegetables and meat. We add rice and then spoon broth over it to make soto (soup). They lead me to the dining room and gesture for where I should sit. They laugh when I reach for the sambal, shocked that I like spicy food 😉

It’s much more informal tonight. Usually, there is chanting and feet stomping involved, speeches and a limited time to eat. But tonight, students are meandering in at their leisure, sitting wherever they like and they are abnormally chatty. I pepper my students with questions and in turn, they ask me all sorts of things. These girls are in grade 11 and speak better English than most of the students in my classes. We laugh and have a grand time. I’m so happy.

While I had a great dinner last night, I’m on my own to wander to the dining hall tonight. I listen for the chanting and at 5:30 on the dot, I see the students march into the dining hall. I grab my fork and spoon and with my stomach rumbling, I cross the lawn. I feel like such an outsider and I’m nervous to enter the dining room. Where will I sit? Will they be too scared of me to want to talk? Should I just fill my plate and go back and eat it in my house?

But quickly, I’m surrounded by students saying hello and pointing me where to go. And then, the girls from last night appear and say, “Miss!! Will you sit with us again?”

Relief. Happiness. Excitement. Belonging.

Bring it on Indonesia. I can do this.