I Want to Write About This Journey With Words I Cannot Even Form or Fathom
Stepping my feet on an entirely new place.
I was walking to the dormitory alone past 8 p.m. while listening to Engagement Party by Justin Hurwitz in a whole new city that feels like home already. I was not only offered a warm welcome, but also kind companionship and love. I wanted to learn about this country and its language respectfully, but it seems like I need more than a week to learn other terms than 谢谢.
I departed from Indonesia on August 25th with tears welling up in my eyes, remembering the way my mother held her own. I have never been away this long and this far from her. She handed me a box of bakpia and wingko each, urging me to share them with my friends. I was too mesmerized by the movement of clouds from above, how Taiwan city lights sparked like a million fireflies, too preoccupied to share the food my mom gave me that would later be thoroughly checked by the airport guards. “None of these contains meat,” I tried to convince them, failed to recall the word kelapa in English (coconut). Now, I have to be satisfied with a pixelated image of her, miles away, lying on the bed I am too familiar with, as she talks about her gardening habit and the silly incident of me almost gulping down soju unknowingly. My father sent me images of them finally going to the beach and ordering seafood at our favorite warung after I begged them to leave the house and do something fun together.
Spending seven consecutive days in our respective quarantine rooms was one of the easiest things I have ever done. I bathed myself in a provided hot spring, looked down at the neighbor’s garden and spotted a cat under the tree, opened my breakfast and lunch like a prize, and shared a picture of what I ate to my dearest friend. On the fourth day, we were permitted to go out as long as we returned before the curfew. My friends and I strolled down the streets of Beitou, stopped by a café that served pretty good matcha, and had lunch in a small ramen shop whose food tasted heavenly. I have a picture of the Beitou neighborhood carved into my mind for it was the first place we visited. The excitement was genuine, the promise of adventure hanging in the air.
On the fifth day of our quarantine, we went to Yangmingshan National Park, specifically Qingtiangang Grassland. When we arrived, the fog covered almost the whole place. Despite our inability to enjoy the greenery thoroughly due to the weather, we walked through the misty path to see the cattle and any existing scenery our eyes could capture.
“This (scenery) reminds me of Wuthering Heights,” a dear one replied after I sent her a picture of a lonely buffalo, lying on the grass beyond the fence. In the next following days, I was preoccupied to overcome a mental language barrier, figuring out the right words to translate these emotions for I was not used to feeling without analyzing. The nearest conclusion I could come up with was: I was exceptionally sure that this journey of mine, this pursued opportunity I no longer missed, would be divinely life-changing. In fact, having someone to share the arts I encounter, the history I learn, to the exhaustion after a long day strolling around the city with—despite the distance—was the unforeseen grace I wouldn’t trade for anything.
Guilt crept through my bones as I stare blankly at the equally blank screen, my fingers unable to dissect my whimsical and serendipitous encounter with authentic traditional culinary I would no longer be able to taste once I am back in my hometown. My mind drifts away from its purpose to form a sentence whenever I recall the glorious architecture of Chiang Kai-shek Memorial Hall or the exhibited arts in the National Taiwan Fine Arts Museum that brought me to tears. Self-promise that I made prior to my departure that I would update this site regularly has been long forgotten until this post is finally made.
“Sometimes I forget that unsaid sentences do not mean unfelt emotions.”
— Tyler Knott Gregson
Words from a dear friend I haven’t thought about in a while came to me like crashing waves: emotions are meant to be felt first and foremost before they can be written. Yogyakarta is the most familiar place, the place I never stray too far from. My ship is anchored to its people, food, and streets; things that are innately different from here. Things that fill me with both longing and gratitude. Right now, I cannot see historical places without remembering Keraton or Prambanan Temple. Next year when I return, I know I will not be able to see Trans Jogja passes by to and fro without remembering the lovely amount of times I’ve spent riding Taiwan public transportation. My body is a museum of memories.
Everyone is encouraging us to share our experiences, but nobody warned us that language is a limitation.
I pass them by quite often. Taking care of the elderly, sitting together in a group of three to four. I went out with my roommates once in the morning, then suddenly, a firm voice called us from behind. “Mbak!” How did I know it was directed at us? Because I heard the same greeting as often as I was walking down my neighborhood in Yogyakarta which indicates their acknowledgment of me. I looked back and saw a group of women sitting in front of our dormitory building, staring at me expectantly. It was not recognition per se, for we had never met before that day, but it was something more: solidarity. “Mari, Bu,” I returned the call as I nodded. I never saw smiles so bright.
Stories my friend told me about are echoing in my mind, back and forth. They are about Indonesian migrant workers being treated differently than scholars. The lesson I learned bounces back at me. The lack of working fields in Indonesia forces people from lower to middle-income families to flee from their country and away from their children to pursue a job as caretakers, daily staff, or anything that could feed their 7-year-olds back home. Legality issues are mainly the responsibility of the government as much as making sure people have proper access to jobs is theirs.
In the Discussion on International Affairs class, we talked about our capacity to help people. Some students say it is a rather difficult thing to do, for men naturally have a too large circle of concern and too small resources. In the European Urban Culture and Economy class, we talked about migrant workers’ impact in turning Taipei Main Station to become a more accessible place where even the local Taiwanese would sit on the floor as we Indonesians would do.
I wonder, what could I possibly contribute with this information alone? What could I possibly do, later on, motivated and driven by this situation and my field of study? But for now, all I am capable to do is sharing.
“Do not forget to eat,” my mother tells me every time we are on a phone call.
“Do not be too stingy to fulfill your needs,” my mentor warned us, concerned with our well-being.
“Buy garlic!” my sister-in-law responded, practically red in the face.
“Please post a picture whenever you go to a national park,” one of my best friends prompted. “And don’t forget to try oyster omelet when you go to the night market!” the other, who is currently living her best life in Liverpool, said.
I still have more than two months to maximize this experience of mine. Riding U-Bike as if I am sort of a Ghibli character. Meeting stray dogs at the MRT station. A nightly stroll with my friend, visiting a hotpot place that closes every time we crave one. The lush woods near where we live, in contrast with the concrete and flyover in front of our campus. Even if I come home without having experienced everything, I won’t regret the roads not taken for I now feel nothing but contentment.