And the panic sets in...

I am so predictable.

After nine pretty solid months of whining and complaining (I miss Bozeman I don’t have any friends I don’t have anything to do I’m sick of constant diarrhea Indonesian food all tastes the same my house is too big Bahasa is too hard it is hot there are bugs I can’t stand the rain I hate my landlady and why can’t Indonesians make an electric converter that doesn’t shock you every time you plug it in, etc. etc.) it finally dawned on me that we are leaving this place in less than a month. Less than a month. And the place that I have said time and time again is not my place, surely not my home, well the thought of leaving that very place fills me with a deep sadness.

Is it the leaving here or returning there that causes the heart to race? I’m not sure. Perhaps a combination of both. I have looked forward to this trip for such a long time. And it has so quickly come to an end. To share this year with my family has been an incredible gift. We have enjoyed each other in ways that could never have come about if it were not for this bizarre, random opportunity. I know that once we get back and camp starts and school starts and the kids see their friends that both Seamus and Graham, but particularly Seamus, that their gaze will turn outward again. And that is OK. That is how it should be. But I have so loved the starring role that our family unit has enjoyed in our own production this year.

And of course missing from my romantic longings for Bozeman all year have been all of the things that drive me crazy about it -- the lack of diversity, the sameness of it all, the goofy politics, funding cuts, annoying neighbors, committee meetings and never ending spring. All of those things, I have not missed. And when I cry over home, it is usually a sunny afternoon in my garden that I am imagining, not the $6 head of lettuce at the Farmer Market or the grant application that is due or my driveway getting plowed in.

But it is the leaving too. It is this place. It is Indonesia that I will miss. It is the wildness of it. Even in the civilized parts. The complete lack of order that some days seems more than just natural, it seems like the way it should be. It is the jungle and the mountains and the crashing waves. It is the idea of saying goodbye to friends, some of whom I truthfully may never see again. Ibu Kasum whose friendship and service have made such an enormous difference in our experience here. Ibu Viva, the hard drinking, chain smoking, pork eating, devout Muslim whose generosity knows no bounds, and trust me, Seamus and Graham have tested this one. Mas Yohannes, the registrar from Mountainview whose sensibility is so perfectly Western and totally Javanese at the same time. These are friends. But even more, I think I will miss people like Pak Smiley, the man who does maintenance on our house and laughs ALL the time. Pak Heni and Ibu Nina, the security guards at the kid’s school. Ibu Widi, the grocery delivery woman. Total chance encounters, but people who have graced our lives with kindness and generosity. And when we go, we will be replaced by another bule family and we may all blur in their memory but they will forever be etched in ours.

Last week, I had a really bad day. I can’t remember what the problem was but it was some goofy, totally typical Indonesian thing that sent me over the edge. Kirk agreed to give me a ride to town but we had to get petrol first. When we got to the warung, I got off the motorcycle and was waiting for him when Ibu Yani, the proprietor who has always unnerved me by her unwillingness to be satisfied with my lame Bahasa, walked up behind me and inadvertently startled me with a very sudden “Pagi bu!” I apologized because that’s what you do in Java even when whatever it is is not your fault but somehow Ibu Yani could tell that something was amiss. As Kirk fussed with the motorcycle, she put her arm around my back and began rubbing my shoulder. It was such a quiet gesture, I didn’t even notice it at first. But gradually I became aware of her touch and was struck by the gentleness of it. I nearly started to cry. Here was a woman from half way around the world, a devout Muslim (and not of the Ibu Viva variety) who frankly owes us nothing. She sells us gas and delivers our drinking water but she also makes certain that we are included in all of the neighborhood gatherings and always, always corrects my pronunciation. We have little in common. She will live in the back of her shop for the rest of her life and I will go home in a month and there, my life will be infinitely easier than she can ever imagine. And yet, in that moment, she had the grace to be not a shopkeeper or a Muslim or even an Indonesian, but a neighbor and a friend. And for that I am very grateful.

I don’t know what I will bring home with me from this experience (with the exception of about $500 worth of really cool batik). But what I do know is that our lives have been changed. And I hope that whatever it is that we have learned this year, we can hold onto it, that we can take a little bit of Indonesia with us and that it might blossom in Montana, despite the cold and the committee meetings.