A Trip Worth Millions

Some things are really easy to write about because they're funny or there's lots of information to fill a page, and other things I find difficult to put into words. I have had experiences here where each time I'm in the middle of one I try to imagine the way I'd describe it to others. Sometimes words just don't do justice to an experience. Unfortunately, sometimes photos don't either, especially when you've been asked not to take any because of sensitive circumstances surrounding an event. One of the most fulfilling things I have had the opportunity to participate in here is to go to a slum area with Abby and to sit in on classes with the children. It's this particular area that I am unable to describe with photos, and so I will try my best using words. For the record, we have taken a few photos on our small digital camera, but we've said that we will not post anything on FB or on our blog, so we'll just keep them for ourselves.

Abby and I are trying to set a schedule where we head out once a week around 4:30 and join 3 national teachers who have huge hearts for their country. These three women have decided that they can make a difference in their country by educating a small group of children who would normally never have a chance at an education. Starting in the morning, these kids beg alongside the road, taking turns knocking on car windows, in traffic, and hoping to help their families make some money. They come home before dark, eat a meal, wash up and on the nights class is held, come to class around 5 pm. The room that they hold class in is about 7 ft x 10 feet, and I believe it is in the front of someone's home. This shanty home is built within a long line of others, situated between an old cemetary (complete with tombs and tombstones) and a filthy dirty river. There's a big hole in the back of the house and it's from this river that the wind blows through the classroom, bringing with it a cool breeze and some mosquitoes, too.

Tonight as we drove up to the river, through the grave sites, we could hear the children cheering before we parked. They knew that we were coming because our angkot (public transport station wagon-bus) honked all the way in. It felt like a scene from some black and white missionary movie from Africa. We hopped out of the angkot, walked through the tall grass, down a hill that, thankfully, wasn't nearly as slippery as our last visit during the rain. Just as we reached the river's edge, we turned into the crowd of children, each of whom greeted us with a beautiful 'salam.' This greeting is one of those Indonesian traditions that gets my heart every time: a child will take the hand of an adult and greet them by placing their forehead or cheek on the adult's hand. It's neat that most of them do it with Abby as well, and they did it to her friend Zoe who accompanied us tonight.

Once we were able to move the crowd of children to just outside the 'school room,' past the skinny puppies and surprisingly fat, healthy-looking goats, and beyond the privacy of a woman bathing behind some rickety boards, we held hands in a circle and sang songs. Twinkle, twinkle is a favourite, even with the 10 year old boys. Skinnamarinky has the same effect on kids all over the world it seems, and the song about copying the person in the middle of the circle makes kids smile in any language. After singing, we all headed inside for some class time. Usually there are about 15 kids, divided into 3 classes, and 1 teacher plus a helper (Abby and I) for each class. Tonight I got to teach the older kids about families. It was great because I got to practice my indonesian and they got some english in as well. The greatest difficulty, when it's not raining, is trying to keep the attention of your class when there's a class of little ones to your right and a class of 7-9 year olds leaning into your "class" space from behind. When it is raining, you are also fighting the sound of the wind, thunder and rain, and sometimes, like our last visit, you are struggling to find a source of light when the power goes out. If you ever think of sending a care package, please send dollar store LED keychain lights. I realize just how handy those things are when you are in an electricity 'pinch.'

After class, the kids are responsible for stacking their tiny little benches at the side of the class, stowing their plastic school folders for another class day, and tidying up. They once again take our hands and tap their foreheads to them, say good bye, and follow us like a flock of goats back up the small hill, through the tombstones and grass, to our patiently awaiting angkot driver. It's usually during this part of the trip that I get emotional. By this time there are boats on the river, long, skinny boats with usually two men in them. One man fishes standing up and the other steers the boat. Others are squatting next to the river, hoping to catch dinner as well. Quite often the clouds are out and the sun is setting pink behind them. More often than not the birds are starting to sing their evening song, competing with the Muslim call to prayer in the not-so-distant distance.

It's in this place of death, surrounded by mud and tombstones, rickety shanty homes and garbage, that beauty still cries out. It's in the silhouette of the fishermen on the river and in the pink sun setting on the grass growing out of the tombstones; it's in the yawning, skinny puppies and the shy yet laughing, shabbily dressed children. It's in the way the kids run around their teachers, salaming and asking questions and saying "be careful" in Indonesian. It's in the way my daughter smiles as she climbs into the angkot, and in the dirt on her shoes that refuses to come off for days.

I'm not sure I can truly describe what I see and feel on these trips. All I know is that although it sometimes takes a kick in the pants to get us out the door for these trips, when I get home I'm usually hot, sweaty, dirty and smiling.

Thanks for reading.