On the Senses

Being back in Indonesia causes my senses to go in overload again.  What was "normal" for about a year is foreign again, yet it inspires a nostalgic effect in me that didn't exist before. I'm encouraged to take my camera out, my pen out, to document and tell stories.  Perhaps it comes with the impending end to my two-year stint in this fascinating country, but everything I experience now is coupled with an odd sense of longing.  As if I need to cherish each moment, each interaction, with the people and things around me.

I see the rambutan sellers on the road, the strange hairy fruits piled up on a cart, and I think of when my friend Michael jumped to reach a rambutan fruit from a tree, only to find it covered with ants that were hungry for the same fruit. He jumped around for a while, shaking off the ants that had landed on his head. I see the becak (pedicabs) powered by the legs of old men, and I think of the second time I rode one, feeling guilty to be pushed around by a man who was old enough to be my grandpa (shouldn't it be the other way around?) I see the markets bustling and selling an assortment of produce, fruits, leaves, roots, and spices that are sometimes hard, if not impossible, to find in the United States.

I smell the exhaust from a truck hurling past me on the road.  I smell the fish coming from who-knows-where -- somehow it's always in the air.  I smell the smoke of burning trash from kampung houses, and I think of the palm oil plantations I saw in Sumatra and discussions I had with locals about the palm oil industry. Many were disappointed with the industry's burning of large plots of forest, destroying the habitat of orangutan and leeching water from the land. And I smell the dampness coming from the walls and ceiling of my room when it rains, a smell so distinctly tropical. It's everywhere. It's in my clothes.

I feel the caked-on dirt on my bike that's been sitting in my room for weeks, not having had a chance to clean it after a ride in torrential rain before departing for the US. I feel the sweat on my back as I bike up a hill to work, Merapi Volcano greeting me from a distance. I feel the cold of the water on my back as I bathe with a bucket and dipper; it's never felt colder, and I jump around a little in the bathroom. I feel the cool tiles under my feet as I walk barefoot in the house my roommates and I are renting.  I sweep my room when I feel bits of dirt on my floor; some people would say it's dust from the ashes of Merapi.

I hear the honking from several cars on Ring Road as I cycle along the side strip designated for motorbikes and bicycles. I hear the motorbikes zoom past me, dangerously close to my bicycle, as I ride along the middle of the strip to avoid the bumpy sewage holes. I hear the the ethereal call-to-prayer from the mosque a few houses down, and I think of Idul Adha, when the prayers lasted all night, the voices of the muazin layering on top of one another from all around the city. My roommates got in a discussion that night about whether or not we minded the noise. I hear my co-workers speak in a mixture of Indonesian and Javanese as I struggle to keep up and eavesdrop on conversations in the office. I think of how much easier it was to talk to visitors from Flores and Lombok, where Indonesian is less slangy and less fused with Javanese -- more straightforward for a foreigner like me.

And taste? It's interesting because Indonesian food already has a nostalgic effect on me, like home-cooking. I had tempe penyet the moment I arrived in Yogyakarta, and the sambal was very spicy for Jogja standards. Talk to people from Lombok and they might complain about how sambal in Jogja is sweet, not spicy. This time it was crazy spicy… or maybe my tongue has just been out of practice. And there's nothing quite like freshly incubated tempe, fried to amazingness. I wonder if I could make it in the US? It's one of the things I will miss most.

Then there's durian. My friend Rifka from Tebingtinggi, a village in north Sumatra, brought oleh-oleh (gifts) in the form of durian cheese cake (of course "cheese cake" here means "topped with grated cheese", not the NY-style cheesecake we're familiar with in the US).  When I took a bite of the durian-filled cake, the fresh flavor and texture that used to inspire a slight gag reflex in me instead made me smile.  I think of that moment in Medan when I sat with my hostel owner and two friends, and we shared fresh durian at Durian Ucok, a famous durian "store" on the side of the road. There were mountains of durian on the sidewalk, and people could come, choose a durian, which would then be sliced open upon request.  There, you're supposed to eat with your hands and share with friends, so we each grabbed the custardy fruit and ate with pleasure (or for some, disgust). To this day, it's the tastiest durian I've ever had. There's a reason why durian from Medan is famous in Indonesia.

These are a few moments of my life in Indonesia, and these day-to-day sensory experiences are ones that can't be sufficiently captured through writing or pictures. But I'll try, in any case, because I will miss these things.  From now until I board a plane back to the United States, I'll try to pay more attention.