In Confessions of culture of a third child , I said that I have a complicated relationship with the question: "Where are you?" The truth is that I have several homelands in Indonesia [1945029?]
My maternal grandparents are the southernmost of the inhabited islands of Indonesia. Rote in Nusa Tenggara Timur, southwest of Timor Mother, who was born and raised in Java, never been keen on the passage of his heritage, but he ran towards me anyway. the first version of Indonesia, I learned was actually Kupang Malay, and the first Halloween costume that I wore for four years was a Rotinese selimut .
Growing up in the country, I struggled with the question "who am I as an Indonesian?" media campaigns Mainstream which encourage cultures to base Bali-mainly Java and provided that a fraction of the response to an ethnic minority like me, but I also grew up a true appreciation for them.
Then I realized that the rest of the answer is my own family tree and homelands of my ancestors. So I started looking NTT and became fascinated by Flores, Sumba, Timor, Adonara, and of course, Rote.
It took me so long to go because NTT feels so far away and expensive to achieve. So I wanted to explore "all" and made great projects that were finances and schedule to get "right". It never happened.
He finally made a sudden announcement that my office was closed for the Eid week, and a call to Djitron Pah, saying he got affordable tickets to go home. " Karmana KB, Orang NTT March pulang son tau ", he teased. " What's up with that, you (ancestors r) are NTT but you come home ".
I had expected a sentimental introspection traveled solo to the birthplace of my grandparents in Rota, drink palm wine on all-nighter tribal dance parties. instead, my uncle said I could not go to Rote. Ferries were canceled due to strong winds and high tides. in addition, relations between our Timorese families and Rote apparently complicated, so I should not travel alone.
"It is a small island, when families have increased over the generations, the land has become scarce and many Rotinese migrated here to Timor, "said my aunt, adding that many Rotinese Timor were not back in their lives. Those who mostly do so to settle land disputes with their parents.
the next day, cousin, niece and nephews took me to visit in Kupang. We took pictures at Tenau port, the monkey caves, the old town, Teluk Kupang outlooking and Pulau Pulau Kera Semau and sunset at Subasuka. He was in a hurry, but fun for the kids and me. The weather was dry, arid ground, and yellow trees as autumn. The streets were vacant and sleepy, reminiscent Outback Australia.
The third day we went to Soe, a small mountain town 113 kilometers northeast of Kupang. With toddlers bite each other on the back, the car was a bit of a circus trick. We spent a village my grandfather grew up, called Oësao. The uncle tried to explain what is there, but the house of Opa was gone. He and my aunt seemed hesitant to meet one who currently installed there.
"No, they are not there, stop pretending with your crazy explanations," snapped my aunt as she tried to calm the crying baby.
Driving past without stopping or taking pictures, I felt let down. But what my aunt said is probably what I do sometimes like an ignorant migrant; idealizing a past that I did not know and get stupidly sentimental on distorted memories.
I learned the bitter truth that even my parents in Timor must not go far from being a stranger in their own homeland. All they had to do is adjust to Kupang, get a modern education, building a career and a family there, and later they are barely generating welcome in a village where their parents grew up. Ironic, considering that NTT is supposed to be one of the most welcoming places in Indonesia.
My disappointment was tempered when we stopped later by the quiet Camplong source, admired the landscapes of the semi-dry river Noelmina, and played with my nephews to Oëhala waterfalls. I spent the night at the Yetty aunt and uncle Min cabin surrounded by lush forests. We stargazed of the mountain that night, and I photographed the sunrise the next morning.
The fifth day, I went with Daniel Soe and our cousin Christine. We stopped by sister Christine, John, and his family. generous mother-in-law John had done for us delicious bread, fried plantain and yam. From there we visited the family Pah Oëbelo to learn about Sasando the Rotinese harp palm.
The sixth and last day of my visit came. I followed Christine and her husband, Erwin, the Gua Kristal, a glittery rock cave with a deep blue pool of brackish water where people often go snorkeling.
So I did not at this time Rote and my visit to Timor was as I expected. Instead, I find meaning in my Rotinese identity in the things I expected the least.
I find when I meet parents that I did not know existed, who fondly remember my grandfather and the treasure of his legacy.
I find when they spend their week off, pointing to the adoptive home of my grandparents, and are really happy with my visit.
I find when my young nephews tag along my travels and try to stick with me.
I find when the mother-in-law of my cousin who knows me barely cordially invite me for a meal and pack snacks for my road trip.
I find when I learn of the beautiful places in Timor named after my grandfather. And I DoN my sunglasses hoping that no one notices my eyes gleaming.
My mother always said our family traveling, "Home is where four of us." NTT has perhaps never been this place for my parents, brother and me. But as far as my extended family is concerned, my home is wherever they are. And despite having never met or been in their home town before, I really feel that I am no stranger among them.
For this third culture kid, here's what "go home" is all about
In memory of Prof. Dr. Ir Herman Johannes.. -. educator, scientist, inventor, national hero and beloved grandfather
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