We’ve arrived in Indonesia and it has already been an eye-opening experience after just a few hours here. Much of what my parents had told me about the country where they were born still seems to hold true.

There are people everywhere doing little jobs for money – taking you to your baggage, taking your baggage cart back to the airport, leading you into and out of parking spots. I doubt I’ll be venturing off much on my own, but if I do, I’ll be sure to carry some extra cash with me to make sure I’m not shorthanded without something to offer as a tip.

The traffic is crazy, although apparently I haven’t seen the worst yet. You see it all: big trucks blowing black smoke from their tail pipes, luxury cars, old beat up pick-ups, scooters and motorcyclists weaving their way through the cars, and then here and there an odd pedestrian playing frogger on the freeway. It seems a little chaotic, but much like traffic I’ve seen elsewhere like the larger cities in Italy, there is an odd flow to it all.

For just under the next week, we’ll be staying at an apartment in the north eastern area of Jakarta. To get here, we drove mostly on the upper level of a raised freeway – or actually, I should clarify, our driver, Yani, drove. Did I mention, we have a driver? Passing by shacks with roofs made of scrap metals, we continued along the freeway and eventually into the neighbourhood where we’re staying.

I had heard we were staying at a nice apartment. Little did I expect that “nice” meant high end, even by North American standards, complete with a ginourmous pool, a private tennis court, an office lounge, exercise room, walking path to the mall next door, and to top it all off, what seems to be military-like security complete with the under-the-car mirror checks. Welcome to Indonesia.

Happy to Have My Home as My Home

While we were still in the plane about to touch down, I wondered what my parents felt like to be returning to the place where they were born. I was trying to imagine what it would be like if I had moved to another country, lived there for more than half my life, and then returned back home to Vancouver for a visit. I would be filled with excitement and anticipation, looking forward to seeing old friends and places. I suspected, though, that for my parents it wouldn’t quite be the same. Indonesia, after all, was a country they had both voluntarily left. Granted, there were circumstances that made leaving the country a better option than staying, but they had both chosen new places to live, made the decision to find a new home.

As it turns out my hunch was right. Neither one was overly excited – just another country to travel to it seems. The thought made me realize how much I appreciate having Vancouver as a place to call home. I had a friend who had put it quite well (and I always remember it): we live in one of the best neighbourhoods, in one of the best cities, in one of the best provinces, in one of the best countries in the whole world. But for now, I’ll be enjoying my home away from home.

In My Own Bubble?

Traveling in another country where you don’t speak or understand the language provides ample opportunity to observe people and places, and to just think. Conversations are happening all around me all the time, but as they’re all happening in Indonesian, or now that we’re surrounded by family, Dutch as well, it’s all basically Greek to me (the Dutch less so than the Indonesian) – it almost turns into ambient sounds. Lucky for me I’m someone who can spend lots of time with nothing but my own thoughts and observations. I have a feeling I’ll have plenty of time for both in the next few days.