Rote Series: Little Mothers and Little Warriors

Suatu kali gua melihat Dhimas, si bungsu di rumah, menggunakan parang untuk membuat fiti (=ketapel). Gile, gua pikir, di rumah gua di Jakarta anak umur enam tahun pegang pisau aja dah diteriakin. Ini megang parang! Anak-anak ini bikin mainan mereka sendiri, seperti fiti (=ketapel) dan tembakan (=pistol).

Ivan (yang nama aslinya, Fajar; menurut cerita, dia sendiri yang minta nama diganti, dan ternyata orang-orang Rote ini punya nama dobel2 emang), si anak tengah di rumah, tukang manjat pohon. Sekali gua liat dia manjat pohon kelapa tinggi sekali sampe gua teriak-teriak takut dia jatuh. Menurut cerita mamanya, Ivan emang pernah jatuh di sekolah sampe dijahit. Tapi kalo urusan ambil kelapa di atas pohon, yeap mintalah si Ivan ini.

Setiap kali gua nyuci baju di sumur mata air dekat rumah, gua akan ngeliat anak-anak kecil juga mandi di sana. Dan bayangkan, anak perempuan kelas 4 SD sudah mulai tarik air. Adiknya yang masih kelas 1 SD juga ikutan tarik air isi ke jirigen kecil. Heck, I had even seen a three year old kid carrying small buckets of water!

Kalau habis mandi, anak-anak ini juga sering cuci baju sendiri. Bayangkan, anak usia TK, 4 atau 5 tahun kali, sudah menyikat baju sendiri. Now I’m thinking of back home with washing machine, and for some, with maids. Anak-anak usia SD kelas besar juga sering gua dapati menggendong adiknya yang masih bayi. Little moms!

And know what, anak-anak gua lebih tau cara nyetir motor daripada gua! Jadi pas gua dapat motor gua buat pertama kali (dan juga mungkin ke-3 kalinya dalam hidup gua nyetir motor sendiri), anak2 gua itu lari-lari sebelah gua dari sekolah sampe rumah, kasih tau kapan harus naikin gigi, turunin gigi, nge-gas. Now this is what I call teacher learning from her students!

Anak-anak gua ini juga menempuh perjalanan yang lumayan (lumayan jauh, lumayan sulit). Buat yang tinggal di Nggelak, dimana gua tinggal, untuk jalan pintas kita lewat hutan. Tidak terlalu lebat sih hutannya. Kadang kalau tidak terlalu becek, lewat sawah biar lebih singkat lagi jalannya. Anak-anak yang tinggal di dusun Lopolain ambil jalan pintas lewat padang. Dalam perjalanan, mereka akan lewat pohon mangga, beberapa anak akan nyolong mangga milik tetangga itu. Anak-anak yang tinggal di dusun Daedulu katanya melalui perjalanan sejauh satu jam. Ini tempat paling jauh, dan frankly, gua masih belum menyempatkan diri melalui rute yang satu ini. Tapi selama ini, rute paling seru itu ke dusun Oana. Mereka lewat hutan, beneran hutan. Katanya di sana banyak kode (=monyet), tapi sayang pas gua lewat sana nggak ada tuh kode yang nongol. But it’s a real jungle, and it’s a jungle gym for my kids. Mereka gelantungan di pohon sana-sini. Now I guess these are the monkey I should be expecting to see, no?

Suatu saat, anak-anak ini akan tumbuh besar menjadi bapa-bapa dan mama-mama yang tahu dan bisa bangun rumah sendiri (kayak rumah gua nih bangun sendiri brick by brick), menumbuhkan hasil pangan sendiri, bahkan bikin minyak goreng dari kelapa.

Setiap kali gua berdecak kagum melihat anak-anak Rote yang lihai ini, orang-orang tua akan komentar, “Kalau tidak begini, mereka tidak bisa hidup.” Yeap, life’s tough.

Kadang gua mikir, sehebat-hebatnya orang kota, kalo ditaroh di desa kecele juga kali yah. These village kids have their own toughness, agility, and skills that city kids do not have. They build their own lives, live their own lives, and sometimes I wonder, why do we from the city dare to even think that we are bringing to them civilization? And they’re happy with what they have too. My kids drew water from the well with laughter. They walked the long walk to school, some through forests, some through savannahs, and they still play around. The world is their playground, indeed!

So what’s wrong with them that we should bring them enlightenment? Sure, we don’t have to draw waters from the well, or look for woods to build fires. But the city folks too have our own problems.

So what more do my kids, these little mothers and little warriors, need?

Opportunities. And power.

And I feel like I just typed some very wicked things.

*sigh* Enough writing for the day.

Rote Ndao,

Friday, 12 October 2012

-me-

Rote Series: This is the Day that I Cried

 

During training, a friend bluntly asked me, “Have you ever cried?” Of course I have. I cried when I first got out of my mom’s womb! But I guess I have that façade of certain coldness. True enough, I would hate it to cry in front of people.

 

Yet I cried in front of a bunch of ten to twelve year old kids, my fifth grade students.

 

It was a normal day like any other. My kids would scream, jump around, and make each other cry. I would hear them reporting their friends for hitting them. And as often had been done, most of them would not turn in their homework.

 

Perhaps it was not such a normal day, either. I had been pressurized by the people at home, fellow teachers, even my predecessor, that you can’t face the kids without harsh punishments. These kids are used to beatings and hard methods. “You can’t be soft,” they told me. I can’t hit kids. I avoid giving punishments.

 

But there I was, facing a class of a rowdy bunch, who had not turned in their homework for two weeks now. It seemed what people had been telling me was right. I should be harsh. So I told my class, “I have prepared for you gifts, lots of gifts, from Kupang. I thought of you when I bought them. But it had been two weeks since I’ve been back from Kupang, and I had not been able to give you any of these gifts because most of you haven’t turned in your homework or behaving well in class.”

 

Then I asked them my ultimate question, “Do you want me to give you punishments?”

 

Out of my expectation, the whole class chorused, “Yes!”

 

“Like what?” I asked.

 

“Pukul, Ibu! Tempeleng, Ibu! Tugas menyalin!”

 

That was the moment my heart broke. In my bag I had brought lots of snacks I bought in Kupang during the Lebaran holiday. I had bought for them little erasers shaped in flowers, cakes, football shoes, football shirts, and balls. Things I knew they would like. And here they were, asking for punishments when I had prepared for them goodies to share.

 

“Fine,” I said. “Fine. I’ll give you punishments” I think that was the moment when my voice cracked and tears, out of my control, started rolling down my cheeks. You can imagine how my shocked my kids were. But I was even more shocked at how I reacted to the whole thing. I ran to the classroom next door (that was, thank goodness, empty), trying to pull myself together, went back to my classroom and dismissed the class.

 

I was alone at school. I did work for an hour, then sat down on the porch for half an hour, looking at the coconut trees swaying, just swaying, the vast blue sky, the yellowish green savannah. And I picked up my phone and called my predecessor. “I heard you had cried before too. How was it?” I asked him.

 

At that time, I understood a little how God must have felt. It so happened that at that time I was reading the book of Deuteronomy, just a bunch of laws and statutes God gave to the Israelites. None of the statues seemed to be unreasonable or harsh. With a list of laws and statutes, God also gave a promise of good things if they were to follow them, and curses if they were to break those laws and statutes. The Lord said that He had for them all the good plans. Yet, the Israelites would time and time again break those laws and asking for punishments. Like how the Jews cried out, “Let His blood be upon us and our children” as they demanded the crucifixion of Christ.

 

Today I saw my children behaving the same way. How hard is it to ask them to submit their homework on time, or even after I gave them a one-week leeway? How unreasonable is it to ask them to pay attention to the knowledge that they themselves need? How difficult is it to behave well to their friends? And I have in store for them all the snacks and little gifts, and they were asking for punishments?

 

Now I knew a little how God must have felt.

 

Btw, do you know what I brought to the class the next day? Two posters: “Mata Tuhan Melihat” (“God sees”) and “Apakah Tuhan Allah ingin aku seperti ini?” (Does God want me to be like this?). And I started lecturing them on infinity, the universe, heaven, earth, and those philosopical things that I only started thinking about in my teens — I don’t know if my students got what I was trying to impart to them, but I hope a little of what I’ve shared would remain deep in their memories.

The task of the teacher, now I realize, is not only in filling up their heads with knowledge, but also their hearts with morals and characters. 

My, teaching is a job that requires humongous heart.

 

 

Rote Ndao,

Friday, 12 October 2012

-me-

Rote Series: My Little Lambs

 

Suatu pagi jam 7:20, Pak Adu, guru kelas 2, nemuin gua kasih tau soal keponakannya, Yusni, one of my fifth grade students. “Ibu, Yusni tidak masuk hari ini. Bukunya terbawa oleh kakaknya yang SMP. Jadi dia takut masuk sekolah.” Dengan sedikit terngaga, gua Cuma bisa jawab, “Oh, oke, Pak.” Gua lagi di tengah-tengah mempersiapkan buat kelas IPS, baca-baca lagi textbooknya, sembari nunggu kelas SBK selesai sebelum gua mulai kelas IPS gua.

 

Jauh di sana, gua bisa lihat rumahnya Yusni. His house is probably the nearest one to school. Lihat jam. 7:30. I’ve got about half an hour before my class starts. Otak berputar cepat. Harus bikin keputusan sekarang. Pergi atau tidak. Gua tutup buku IPS, masuk ke ruang kepala sekolah. “Bapa, beta mau izin sebentar, mau pergi ke rumah Yusni jemput dia.” Bapa Kepsek Cuma mengangguk, mungkin heran juga dia.

 

Jadilah gua jalan ke rumah Yusni di atas bukit. Dekat rumahnya dia, gua lihat Yusni lagi bermain. Begitu lihat gua, Yusni kaget dan langsung lari ke dalam rumah. “Shalom!” sapa gua. Yang menyambut itu Bu Sri, tante-nya Yusni. Kaget juga Bu Sri melihat Bu Guru sudah di depan rumah. “Beta mau jemput Yusni, Bu Sri,” gua menjelaskan sebelum ditanya. Langsung deh Bu Sri teriak suruh Yusni siap-siap.

 

Dalam perjalanan balik ke sekolah, Yusni jalan di belakang gua.Gua bilang ke dia, “Yusni, biar kamu tidak ada buku atau alat tulis, Ibu mau kamu tetap datang ke sekolah.” Dia tersenyum terus, malu kali yah. But he always does that, smiling all the time, when he’s embarrassed, when he did something wrong, when he did something right. The only time I saw him with a serious look was when he was listening to my morning devotions with stories of Abraham, Samson, Esther, Joseph, the apostles.

 

Berjalan ke sekolah, diiringi Yusni (who refused to walk besides me) dan adiknya, Rafli, anak kelas 2 yang harusnya masuk siang, I sighed. “Tau nggak,” I told them, “Ibu merasa seperti penggembala domba. Dan kalian domba-domba Ibu yang hilang dan Ibu cari.”

 

8:10. We were late for class for ten minutes. I didn’t immediately start on today’s IPS lessons on Indonesia’s ancient kingdoms. I started my class by telling the story of a shepherd, who had one hundred sheep, and lost one of them; who, for that one sheep, looked for it high and low. “Hari ini Ibu merasa seperti penggembala domba itu, yang mencari satu anak domba yang hilang, Yusni ini,” I told my class.

 

Indeed, my students are my little lambs. Every one of them has peculiar personalities. Some are so fragile, I felt like holding a glass.

 

Salah satu murid gua, Marson, bandel sekali. Tapi kalau diganggu, bahkan diejek sama anak perempuan, dia bisa menangis,dan kalau sudah begitu, ngambek tidak mau kerja lagi. The first time I went to his house for home visit, his father’s immediate comment of his son, “Ini anak jahat. Saya tempeleng juga dia tidak peduli.” His mom ran away from the house when he was still a baby. His father seemed to have given up on his youngest son.

 

Dealing with Marson is like dealing with a fragile snow flake. Hold it wrong a little, and it’ll break. Satu kali dia ngambek, tidak mau mengerjakan tes IPA. Gua membujuk-bujuk, sampai ingin rasanya ngenbanting sesuatu dan teriak untuk maksa dia kerjakan itu tes. Bu this is a child who seemed to have been beaten a lot, that another smack on his head won’t make him change. This is a child who, in anger, would punish himself. Gua terus bersabar.

 

Marson juga sering bolos sekolah. Beberapa kali gua kejar ke rumahnya. Pernah siang-siang di bawah terik matahari, pernah ketika sudah malam gelap. Every time I asked him why he didn’t come to school, he’d lie. “He’s a difficult child, Ibu,” his father, relatives, teachers would tell me, and that’s how they gave up. I won’t lie. He is a difficult child. In anger he would rip off his notes and tear it into pieces. He would cross out the little star I once gave him for submitting his homework on time, and told me that he didn’t need stars and I could give it to another kid. I asked him to re-tell the story he heard in his Sunday School, and he would stay so quiet. Sometimes I feel that he’s testing me, and I’m struggling with a piece of glass.

 

But this is also the kid who would tell me lots of stories on the way home from school. He’s very good at fiti burung (fiti = ketapel); he has that great natural accuracy. This is the only kid who was brave enough to catch the tokek in the classroom and throw it away (while I was running out of the classroom, screaming to a fellow teacher of the “beast” in my classroom hahaha). This is the child who has that bright, naughty smile that I like to see more often.

 

Lalu ada pula muridku yang lain, Robin. Dia juaranya alpa untuk kelas 5, dan pernah tertahan kelas dua kali. Minggu pertama sekolah, dia absen total. Gua harus pergi ke lapangan bola untuk ngedapetin dia, kenalan untuk pertama kali, dan minta dia datang ke sekolah. Robin’s story is similar to Marson’s, but probably worse. His mom ran away from home a couple of years ago. His dad only spoke Rote. No one’s really taking care of the family or the house. One time I did a home visit. Met his dad. Emang ternyata nggak bisa bahasa Indonesia; gua ampe mikir, gimana coba mo minta bapaknya nulis surat izin buat Robin, wong ngomong Indo aja satu, dua kata doang. And his house smelt of human excretion. The youngest child, Martin, 3 years old, went around the house without his pants. No one seemed to care enough.

 

Robin would miss out classes every now and then. Sometimes I would “pursue” him to his house, sometimes I would wait. He has that tendency to miss school. Sometimes he missed school to just play around, sometimes his father would take him to kopra factory to help him do some work. Recently he had been missing classes again. Setelah sekolah gua pergi ke rumahnya, probably for the fourth or fifth time this semester. Di rumahnya, gua hanya mendapati ayah-nya Robin lagi tidur pulas. Gua teriak “Shalom” berapa kali tidak bangun juga nih bapak. Akhirnya gua ke rumah tetangga, mau Tanya dimana Robin. Dan ternyata, there he was! Lagi tarik air dari sumur tetangga, pakai baju sekolah, dan adiknya Martin bersama dia, membawa jirigen kecil. “Kenapa tidak masuk hari ini, Robin?” I asked. He said he didn’t have a clean shirt. I saw him wearing a dirty school shirt, so probably he wasn’t lying. I told him, “Ibu tidak peduli kamu tidak punya seragam bersih. Ibu tidak peduli kamu pakai sepatu ko atau sandal ko. Pakai apa saja. Ibu mau lihat kamu di sekolah.” Besoknya dia datang ke sekolah dengan kaos putih berkerah merah. Gua jadi ingat the story I told my fifth grade class, of the little bird with red breast. Robin, si burung kecil berdada merah. Robin, muridku yang jago main bola, yang serius kalau mencatat catatan di kelas, yang suka menggambar dan mewarnai (like all of my other kids), dan yang tersenyum dengan gigi merahnya.

 

Murid-muridku ini seperti domba-domba. Masing-masing dengan kepribadian uniknya. Murid-muridku juga seperti bawang, with layers upon layers that I have to peel to get to them. Masing-masing dengan motivasi yang berbeda, kemampuan dan keahlian yang berbeda, reaksi ke incentive and punishment yang berbeda… basically, just humans, unique human beings, like all of us on earth.

 

Being a teacher is one hell of a job. No wonder God made Moses a shepherd for forty years before he led a bunch of stiff-necked Israelites on a forty-year journey across the desert.

 

So I guess now I’m playing the shepherdess.

 

Rote Ndao,

Friday, 12 October 2012

-me-

Rote Series: My Little School on the Prairie

 

I remember when my predecessor took me to the school for the first time, I was in awe. The nearest house is about 500 meters away. There’s nothing there but the school. Behind it is a forest and in front is an endless prairie (okay, I’ve never ventured out to that prairie so maybe it’s not as endless as I thought it is).

 

I would like to call it, My Little School on the Prairie.

 

I walked to the school almost daily. Took me about half an hour on a dusty, rocky, white road to reach my school on foot. The school itself stood on a red ground. That ground is called Daepapan (therefore the name of the school: SDN Daepapan). I was told that this was a battle ground in the old days. Those who fought would often smack their hands on the ground and yell, “Daepapan!” So that’s where the name came from.

 

This school was built in 2007 by the initiative of the parents in three dusuns nearby (Dusun Nggelak, Dusun Daedulu, and Dusun Lopolain), who wanted to have an elementary school that is nearer for their kids. At first, the buildings were from bebak (dried leaves and wooden planks). But the buildings fell flat to the ground in 2008 during strong wind, which luckily happened during a school holiday. So in 2008, the government took over the school and built proper buildings. However, it only had three classrooms, a teachers’ room, two teachers’ houses, and one toilet. So until last year, there were morning classes and afternoon classes. With a new headmaster this year, the teacher’s room was converted into a classroom (with a small room divided by cupboards for the teachers’ room) and the dorm was converted into a classroom too. So we all have morning classes now.

 

And you know what, I’m back to using blackboard! My, when was the last time I used blackboard? Probably when I was in fifth grade many, many years ago. I love using color chalks. But at the end of every day, I’d find myself covered with dusts. I’d call this my pixie dusts. Hahahaha.

 

When I reported about the school’s physical condition to the private foundation I’m working with, I feel pity for the school. Three classrooms, half a teacher’s room, half a headmaster’s room, one toilet? I’d remember about my own elementary school. I’d even remember my high school, one of the most expensive schools out there in Indonesia. We had what, two swimming pools, two gymnasiums, a football field, and even a horse stable?

 

My school doesn’t even have electricity and water. With one toilet and reserved for teachers only, the students take their ‘breaks’ in the bushes. One time, I allowed all my kids to take their break at the same time, and I could peek from the window of my classroom little boys and girls spread all over the ground behind the school building, each doing their own business, and I laughed a little inside. What a cute sight. But what a pitiful one too. But they’re used to it, and I’m used to it by now too.

 

I’m teaching fifth grade, with 19 students, 6 girls and 13 boys. They were very shy at first, but now I find them to be a very rowdy bunch. When I ask them a question, they all would shout all kinds of answers, just shooting at me random answers. Then when I walked around checking their works, they would play around, jump around, get rough with each other, and soon one by one would scream, “Ibu, she’s crying! Ibu, he’s crying!” You know, almost every day I got a couple of kids crying in my class. Thank goodness I’m used to the tears of little kids, thanks to my crybaby little cousins.

 

My little kids are cute ones. If not considering my role as a teacher and theirs as my students, some of them I would shower with kisses and I would squeeze their cheeks. It breaks my heart when I know that half of them can’t read, and they’re in fifth grade too.

 

On the real first day of school (there were so many holidays that there were many ineffective school days), I tried to teach Bahasa Indonesia (we call it here, Bindo). The topic was Interview. I struggled real bad. So bad, that the next day I decided to do a Math and Bindo tests for the whole day. And I found out that half of my kids can’t read well. Even if they manage to read the sentence, it doesn’t mean that they understand it. All but one cannot do divisions. They don’t understand the concept of negative numbers. And they’re in fifth grade! They’re going to have their national exam next year!

 

Not that I did not expect any of these. It’s just that, when the reality strikes you, it still strikes you bad. So what happened? I tried to analyze it, I observed, I listened to stories, and I understand a little. It’s the teachers. Probably it’s the system too, but mostly the teachers. Now, since this is not a private entry written solely for friends and family, I shall not start exposing all the bad things I’ve seen and heard here. But it’s a pity that things happen the way they do. I mean, aren’t these children their children too, their future, the future of Rote? In my class alone, three kids are the children of the teachers here.

 

That’s at school. Not to mention what’s at home. I’ve visited almost all of my children’s houses. Some parents are good in monitoring the education of their kids. Some at least tried. Some don’t care. One father exclaimed that his son is a bad son, even when I just barely entered his house. Some of my kids’ parents (either the mother or the father) have run away from home.

 

Education is a complex issue indeed.

 

I once asked my predecessor about the nice spots I could go to just clear my mind. He said there aren’t really any, but the school is good enough. The school is really good enough. Sometimes when I waited for my kids to finish copying the notes on the blackboard, I’d gaze outside of my classroom. I’d see coconut trees swaying. I’d feel the afternoon breeze. Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of the blue sea far away. And the endless prairie. With all its grand facilities, my high school did not have this kind of view.

 

My little school on the prairie, indeed.

 

 

Rote, 30 August 2012

-me-

Rote Series: Me House and Family

 

How many people do you need to replace a bed frame of the village’s newcomer (a.k.a. me)?

 

Probably ten.

 

When I first came to this village, Desa Daleholu, at Rote, I was immediately put into the house of my host family in dusun Nggelak. It’s not a fancy house, but it’s actually much, much better than what I had had in mind. You know, I was imagining a little hut from dried leaves and an open toilet by the river. But here I have a house of bricks, a tin roof, rough cement as floor, a decent squatting toilet, and a bed. An actual bed. You know, with the mattress and a bed frame. I even got electricity and a phone signal here!

 

As I arrived to this house, I was greeted by, what seemed to me, dozens of people. I can’t even make out who’s who and who’s my actual host family. And everyone was busy making things ready for me. They all talked in this language I barely understood. It sounded like Indonesian but different. It’s what they call here “Bahasa Kupang”, which is what generally the language of the east sounds like here in Indonesia. Oh, and they also talk in Bahasa Rote.

 

With them busy as bees for who knows what (I really couldn’t understand what was going on), the next thing I knew the men were carrying a bed frame from the house across the street to this house. They were replacing the bed frame in what was to be my room. Then the men worked on the wooden board for the bed frame, looked for the mattress, and set up a mosquito net over my bed (there aren’t many mosquitos around, but the net is useful in keeping the dirt from the roof from falling onto my bed). So many people were working on this.

 

Soon I would find out that the house across the street belongs to the grandfather, and next to that is the house of his other son. And soon I would find out that here in the village, everyone is somehow related. And because everyone’s related, whenever there are things that need to be done, everyone’s involved. For example, recently my host family was building a new annex to the house for the kitchen, all the brothers and the fathers and the mothers and the sisters were here to help out, either by building the house, cooking, or just chatting. And one time, there’s a funeral at the next door dusun (that’s like a subset of a village) and everyone in that dusun got involved because, well, everyone’s family.

 

The family I’m living with now consists of father, mother, and three sons. They’ve got another son but he lives in Kupang. Father, whom I call “Bapa”, is a farmer in his forties and has worked as factory worker in Cengkareng (wow). Mother, whom I call “Mama”, is also a farmer but she teaches at a private kindergarten about 6 KM from here (and later I would find out that she’s a very active woman in the church and the village), in her thirties and has worked as a helper in Timor Leste. So both parents have gone outside of Rote, and I think that made a lot of difference; I would later find them to be very open-minded people.

 

The three sons are Papi, Fajar (a.k.a Ivan; his mom just told me that one day he decided that he would be Ivan, so from then on everyone calls him Ivan), and Dhimas. Papi acts as the eldest, a very responsible young man, very much adored by the 2-year old cousin across the street, and he’s only 11. Ivan is 9 and I can see that he’s the naughty one; he’s got sparkles in his eyes, but he’s a good guy, he once helped me carry a big map from school to home (and back). Dhimas is 7 years old (just turned 7 last week!), ranked 1 in his class, and he can’t stay put for long; he once played a plastic snake outside of my room after I told him I’m afraid of snakes ( and they said in the forest behind the house there are plenty of them, yikes!).

 

Oh, did I tell you that my room has no door? In fact, most houses I’ve been to in Rote have no doors. They just put a cloth on door frame. So when the wind blows, then you can take a peek into my room. The kids would often yank the cloth-door as they pass by my room, to just take a peek of what I’m doing inside. Mama would often pop her head inside my room unannounced. Well, there’s no door to knock on, what can I say? Yeah, I’ve got little privacy here. Once there was a discussion initiated by a visiting relative on making me a door for my room. I refused. Not only it will cost, but what for? I’m okay with almost-no-privacy. Having shared a room with 32 other girls and take a shower with them, I’ve learned to shed away privacy. Besides, I’ve learned too that privacy is not very much what’s on the outside as much as what’s inside your head. And for what’s inside, I think I’m still able to keep my privacy well.

 

So I’m settling down well here.

 

It took me a week to differentiate between Papi and Ivan. It took about three weeks before Bapa and Mama stopped telling me how humble their house is and keep apologizing to me for it (I mean, gosh this is so much better than what I had expected!). It took me a month to get used to Nggelak’s cold nights and colder water (I was told that I’m staying at the coldest place in Rote! I mean, my water would literally feel like ice in the morning). And it took me two months, and a two-week travel to Ndana and Kupang, to finally be glad to be home.

 

I’m glad I’m home =).

 

 

Rote, 30 August 2012

-me-

Rote Series: In the Dark of the Night

“Why do I feel that the sky is bluer here?” I asked my predecessor as we rode on an old motorbike past the savannah in Rote from town to the village.

 

“It is,” he answered.

 

At night, past that same savannah on that same old motorbike, I gazed up the sky and saw stars so numerous I was in awe. And I looked behind me and saw nothing. The night was as dark as it could get. Total darkness.

 

“It’s so dark here! What if this old bike broke down and we’re stuck here in this darkness in the middle of the savannah?” I exclaimed in fear.

 

“Well, you better pray that it doesn’t happen,” he replied.

 

“How could you ride in this darkness on your own?” I wondered.

 

“You’ll get used to it. Just turn on your music player to its maximum volume.”

 

And we chatted the whole journey back to the village. Every time we rode home at night, we would always—always—chat, almost non-stop. It is as if to make sure that we were both still alive and this darkness did not consume us. Or to make sure that there is another living soul nearby.

 

I couldn’t imagine how I could ride a motorbike on my own past this dark savannah when he is gone, back to his big city, in a week’s time.

 

I never rode a motorbike past the savannah in the dark of the night since the departure of our predecessors from Rote. And I avoided any night travel. This darkness still scared me.

 

Then one night, I decided to travel on my own. It’s just a 15-minute walk from my home to a student’s house. He had been missing classes for three days in a row, and I could not catch him during the day. So I decided to visit his house at night when I am sure he’d be at home. I took my torchlight, my jacket, and walked on my own in the dark. I walked on the main road, but in some stretches of the road, there would be no houses and only forests on either side of the road. If I turned off my torchlight, I knew I’d be in complete darkness. I hummed a song to rid myself of the fear that was tickling inside of me. Finally, I reached my student’s house, talked to him and his father, and went back home.

 

On the way, I gazed at the stars above and marveled. It seems, I have finally gotten used to Rote’s dark night. Rote, and everything in it, I’ll get used to it. It’ll be a part of me soon enough.

 

 

Kupang, 24 August 2012

-me-

Rote Series: Rainbow-winged ship and flying fish

“What is it called?” I asked. I stood by the railing on the top deck of the ship and looked attentively at the surface of the sea. I think I just saw something flying out of the water.

 

“Flying fish”, a passenger answered.

 

Flying fish! The typical Indosiar fish! This is the first time I saw a flying fish! It jumped off the water, skirted the surface of the sea, and was gone into the water again. I was so excited I kept looking at the sea surface to catch this delightful sight. Flying fish! For real!

 

“What is its local name?” I asked that passenger again. He mentioned something about “kelemak” or “kelamak”. This fish can be found aplenty in Rote seas. I would soon eat one, he said.

 

I was on a fast ferry from Kupang to Rote island. It was a three-hour sail. Our seats were inside, below. But how could I miss the fantastic view of the sea, on my first journey to Rote? I went to the upper deck and sat there for the rest of the journey.

 

The hot morning light played with the spurts of sea water on the sides of the ship and produced little rainbows. This was no ordinary ship. What ordinary ship would have rainbows as wings and flying fish as guards? This was the ship that carried within it nine mad people. Mad enough to go out of the big cities to Rote.

 

To go to Rote, we flew from Jakarta to Kupang, with a transit at Surabaya. Then we took the fast ship to Rote. To reach Rote, we have to pass Pukuafu, it is where the current from Indian Ocean meet the current from Sabu Sea. It’s considered to be a very dangerous spot. If the winds are strong and the waves were rough, the currents could take down ships. In 2006 or 2009, a ship has sunk on this spot. When we passed Pukuafu that day, the seas did seem to be a bit rough.

 

“Those are Termanu rocks,” the passenger I chatted with pointed to two big rocks just off the shore of Rote island. Those rocks, he said, are male and female and were believed to have flown from Ambon in ancient times.

 

“And that’s Ba’a”, he again pointed to a row of buildings far away.

 

Ba’a. That’s the regency town, kota kabupaten. This is the town of the island where I would live the next one year of my life in. Rote island, the island that looked so flat, and dry, and hot. How did I end up here? It’s the story that took me two years, much heartache and considerations, large doses of idealism, and plenty of reality strike.

 

This is the day I shall remember. The day of rainbow-winged ship, flying fish, male and female rocks, and the little town called Ba’a.

 

 

Kupang, 23 August 2012

-me-

Farewell — Starting Out in Rote

I shall begin this with a farewell.

 

Friday, 29 June 2012 was probably one of the saddest days I’ve had for months. It was a day of farewell, goodbyes, and tremendous fear.

 

At that time, I’d been in Rote Ndao, the southernmost point of this archipelago, for almost two weeks. I had come to this island with eight others, on a mission with quite a dose of idealism. We were welcomed by a group of strangers, who on our first encounter did, well, strange things. But this group of strangers soon enough became our guides, mentors, and even pillars of strength.

 

These strangers had come a year before us and had been elementary school teachers at village schools here in Rote. We came to replace them, to continue what they had done until another group comes and replaces us next year.

 

They introduced us to the school, the village, the people, the culture, everything. Seeing how they related to people, talked to them (and talked like them too!) and blended so well with the locals, it made us wonder if we could ever be what they had been to the people here: a dear friend, a loved teacher, a cherised family, and to a certain extent, a part of them.

 

Now I am writing this from my own personal experience, but I believe many of my friends who had come with me felt this way. I have used my predecessor as a shield. I walked behind him and let him did all the talking, the relating, the introduction, the small talks. He was like a gate, a bridge, information center, dictionary, and probably the whole village itself. –

 

As Friday, 29 June came nearer, a certain form of fear grew within me; the same kind of fear that was shared by most in my group. It was probably the same kind of fear that children have when they are about to be left by their parents on the first day of school. What are we going to do without them? How am I going to survive with complete strangers on my own? How am I going to ride a motorbike pass that vast savannah in the dark of the night on my own?

 

That day at the harbour, when the ship whistled, the small bridge between the ship and the platform was lifted, the ship sailed away—steady and steadfast on its destination, away from us— and finally was lost from sight, I turned around and looked at this island. Rote, it’s me and you now.

 

“Man, I felt sadder now than I did when we left Jakarta,” a friend said as we watched the ship sailed away. I agreed.

 

That night as I laid on my bed, I thought, Here I am in a village of complete strangers. Funny, come to think of it, my predecessor is actually no more of a complete stranger than the family I’m living with now; I’ve had known him only a day earlier than this whole village.

 

That night I SMS-ed my friends, the eight brave people who had come with me. As I received their replies, their empathy and their fears, their encouragement and their hopes, I realized that I am not on my own. After a few days on my own in this village without my predecessor, I realized that I can actually live here.

 

For many days since then, even until tonight, the villagers and I talked about my predecessor. What he had done at school, what he had been like with the children, the stories he had shared with the kids and the villagers, how he stood up to others to defend what he thought was right, how he rode that old motorbike, the story of how he walked on foot to town at dawn (I had tried to assure them that this story is a myth, as the subject of the story itself had confirmed with me, though to no avail; well, there’s a reason why myths prevail), and how he is now in Jakarta.

 

During training, before I left Jakarta to come to this island, we had been warned of the possibility of being compared with our predecessors. Sometimes, this comparison can be a heavy burden to us. Funny enough, now that I’m here, I don’t mind the comparison. I like it well enough if the spotlight is not on me. And funny enough too, I use him and the memory of him as a bridge to the people here. The villagers and I have probably nothing in common, but the both of us have the memory of the same person, my predecessor. And I know, for many, many days, until I have built a bridge of my own, he will be a constant subject of many of our conversations.

 

We talk of him like he were a dearly departed. In a way, he really has departed; he has left Rote. And from the way he answered when asked if he would ever return, I have doubts that he would ever; ten or twenty years from now sounds almost like never to me. The sigh when they said “Oh, he is now in Jakarta, isn’t he?” is like what people would do when talking about those in heaven. I know, soon enough that memory would remain as that, memory. One day, we would not talk with much sadness anymore but with fondness of the things that have passed. And one day, we would be able to accept that things move on and the world is still spinning and that we are still here, breathing. I know. I’ve been there.

 

Before I left the big city to this southern island, my friend asked me, “Are you ready?” I told her, I’ve been ready for two years. Yesterday is the mark of that two years.

 

As usual, this I dedicate to her. She, who will not see her “ten and twenty years from now”. She, who will never be 24. She, one of the few who managed to make me cry my worst. She, who will not be able to laugh at the story of how I cut my finger cutting celery in Rote. She, who will never hear the stories of my little school on the prairie, of Rote’s bright stars and shining full moon and blue sea and white sand, of the endless savannah, and of my little adventure. She, who should be celebrating her birthday in two weeks’ time. She, who taught me that life could be so, so short. I’m sorry I didn’t lay any flower on you yesterday.

 

You’re still one of the biggest reasons why I am where I am now.

 

Rote, it’s you and me now. It’s us. And God. 🙂

 

In memory of 10 July 2010 and the start of this little adventure,

-me-

Rote Ndao, 11 July 2012