I write from Bandung, but not of Bandung; in a moment of inspiration I've decided to Follow the Prophet and make my every Monday night here as close to Family Home Evening as I can manage and forgo my journaling hour to instead write a real letter to you. Ya kan? I'm already a good few pages into this week's missive, then, and will write up right until Sunday so that you get a steady week's worth of thoughts, notes, and observations to be sent off the afternoon before I begin a new one (we have a set appointment at the post office every Monday afternoon to send our green letters to the Presiden). And unlike the dodgy post desk in Jakarta, Bandung boasts a real live Kantor Pos, complete with legit signage and corporate counters and everything! So there is room to hope that this might actually work out into a stable sort of system.
In that light, then, I fill you in on my last two days in Jakarta . . .
Thanksgiving morning we woke up pagi-pagi to a stunner of a storm, the deluge relentless and our morning soccer plans surely kaput. Still, I went forward putting on the last touches to Sis Mongan’s sneakers (she had the white canvas keds, I had the Sharpies. It was a wonderful sort of wedding) since she was determined to show them off anyway and we packed into a taxi for Senopati, me with my suitcases in tow. On arrival at the Office we found all the Elders had already left to brave the rain in a city walk—-I think more to escape from having to change into their batik than anything else—-and so all the American sisters went over to Elder & Sister Millecam’s to help decorate their Christmas tree while I and most the Indo sisters went out in the storm to search out our Elder counterparts, who we found just about halfway down the road from 115, completely satched and smiling. Therein commenced a somewhat epic round of photo-taking (Indonesians are so Asian. Oh, my word. The amount of pictures they deem necessary . . .), noteworthy in that I was the only white face among them. We took them in the middle of the road, along the river/sewer, in front of the mission home fence, on the porch bench . . . basically every step we took required another picture so that, with this exercise and the somewhat late hour I'd spent up the night before in order to have everything packed, by the time we took the last picture in front of the Millecam’s fish pond I walked one last step into their living room and fell right away and straight asleep there on the couch. It was, quite frankly, one of the better moments of the whole day. Pumpkin pies all set out on the table, Mariah Carey belting out the Christmas carols from a corner by the tree as Sister Hewlett hacked at a Martha Stewart magazine for paper ornament instructions and Sister Sumarno tied pink ribbon to whatever pine branch she could get a hold on. I think it was then that the homesick began, curled up on a real couch in a real home with a real Christmas tradition . . . I made it through that without crying, at least.
Then it was the actual Thanksgiving Dinner (Lunch), so I kept busy with honeyed ham and sweet yams and a so-happy homemade strawberry jam while Sister Hewlett filled me in on her friend's mission to the Dominican Republic, which definitely gave us a few things to be thankful about, and I taught Elder R a few more words in Italian and met Elder Bayodo who (sad day) took Elder Supriyanto’s place in the office since he transferred to Medan. I even kept up the composure through the next exercise, a round-the-table testimony meeting of what we were thankful for in our mission and why—-though Sister Mongan’s tears did tempt mine a bit, to be sure. Really, it was a lovely way to spend a holiday right up until the moment an afternoon movie was announced: October Sky.
Remember how American that movie is? How beautifully home of the free and the brave and rockets red glare that movie is? How it's also one of my heart's favorites and how the music speaks soaring eternities to my soul? Yes, that October Sky. I almost stopped myself right there in the beginning with the first blink of Sputnik, knowing this could do no good to the still-so-small strength I'd managed to build up for myself in the past three months, but once Jake Gyllenhall graced the silver screen I couldn't help it. I sat down. . . Would that I had run away.
That movie transported me. No one could have convinced me I was still in Indonesia, nobody. It was America! It was Fall! It was family and home . . . [and] I was floored. As the credits rolled I woke still dreaming, determined that I would turn to my left to find Daniel instead of Elder St., to look up and meet Olivia's eye instead of M's. No such luck. I guess we should have known the Holidays would be tough. But we should really also know rather well just how weak we really are (that much is made clear at least five times a day in the mission)
The next morning it took us five minutes to get from Orton's to Senopati—-the only traffic confined to the sidewalks as hundreds of Muslim pilgrims made their way to their respective Mosques for Idul Adha*, a hari raya or holiday. It was a holiday we'd been expecting all week, as soon as little farm plots were started popping up outside each neighborhood prayer house, a little like the way Christmas tree yards start appearing in the days before Thanksgiving except that these little stables were full of goats, a sign overhead declaring "Mosque ____ is ready to accept your sacrifices." Sister Orton refused to believe that the poor little darlings were all destined for death, but so goes the tradition and come that Friday morning, the sewers ran red. In your emails yesterday you mentioned sacrifice and while I really don't understand it as well as I should, or apply the principle of it to full advantage, I imagine that now I have a pretty good look into a more physical reality of that word and a few good experiences to share the next time I'm called to teach an Abraham and Isaac lesson——we arrived so early to Senopati that I got in on the trip to their mosque just around the corner, following the Elders to watch it all (no other Sisters wanted to see).
I was going to send photos along with this email, but the computer's not cooperating and maybe that's a sign to just let it go—-I don't find the blood too disturbing, but maybe I'm strangely desensitized? I don't know. At any rate, it was quite the send-off out of Jakarta. Just after the last of fourteen goats was dispatched (hm, euphemism) I had to race back to the office to catch our ride to Bandung, saying only a fleeting street-talk goodbye to Elder Supriyanto (he's taught me most of what I know and still laughs at me every time I slip it a "gituloh, ya kan?") and a see-you-soon-enough to Elder T and Elder Lewis. Two hours later, Bandung. Been here ever since. . . . Dad, you were dead-on as always—-mission is a revolving door of stress, and change has never been kind to the more sensitive souls like mine . . . but mostly it comes down to what it's always been: I love you. And I really, really don't like being without you.
Q & A
How are my companions?: Luar biasa. I'm paired up with Sister Atmi and we already got along quite well in JakSel, so we're a good team here, too. Then there's Sumarno, Suhendro, who will go home two weeks from now, Sodjo and Christensen (different from JakSel Christensn).
Living conditions?: Some things are better than Jak, some things are worse—-though for natural lighting, I can't complain; this Bandung house is all-a-glitter in the mornings and it helps to make me happy. I'm also sleeping on an actual mattress on an actual bed frame. Perk. Plus there's a wee rooftop terrace where I like to go to be alone and quiet. And it's in a really clean, family-full sort of neighborhood, with a mosque two steps away so that the call to prayer's especially loud and lovely all day long.
Contacting?: Ha. I'm not even going to go there. Await my letter.
Is it less Muslim? More. Unbelievably more. A mosque every other house, it seems—-the combination of so many calls to prayer is out of this world.
Is it more beautiful? A loud and huzzah Yes! Green and mountains and clean (well, relatively) and white ponies with pink manes in the park. It's kind of magical.
Was it harder than you thought leaving Jakarta? Yes. But you know what a sentimental sop I am, so what else is new?
I am now about to be late to University, where I get to teach English class, HUZZAH. Here's to hoping that will cure my sad, selfish state—-but I would also appreciate your prayers.
It's a good thing, knowing I can at least make it to our Christmas phone call. And in between that there's a Zone Conference, which means Jakarta and Sister Millecam and Elder Millecam . . . and I'm also trying to swing things my way to make it back to Jak for Florentina’s baptism. Mah, here I am again, living landmark to landmark. How weak the mettle of mortal!
I love you.
Sister E.
*The Muslim calendar moves up eleven days every year . . . so there's the slightest chance, given the way my release date stands as of now, that your arrival in Indonesia could coincide with the next Idul Adha and you could see all the . . . um, guts and glory for yourself! Now, ain't you excited?
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