Installment two: Arrival
After a night in Jakarta, the other three EWB participants and I flew to Yogyakarta, a smaller city on the main island of Java. We stood in the airport looking hopelessly and hilariously out of place, smiling stupidly at one another, waiting for someone to tell us what to do next.
We finally decided to call the organization we would be working for, USC Satunama. A series of pantomimes and patient people brought my ear to a beeping phone (phones don’t ring in Indonesia, they beep). When someone on the other end picked up, I said something to the effect of “My name is Monica. I am one of the Engineers without Borders interns. We have arrived at the airport.”
This was met with great confusion and I was transferred many times. Panic was just starting to set in until I added the magic words “from Canada.” This improved the situation immediately and I was told someone would pick us up in about 40 minutes.
The waiting area in the Yogya airport is simply a set of benches next to a parking lot. The surrounding area seemed inviting-so much less intense and drastic than Jakarta. Chetan, another participant, and I used the time to explore.
One of the first things I noticed was that women were driving motorcycles. In Jakarta, I had only seen them riding on the back. A chicken strolled across the sidewalk and gave us a once-over. We must have been quite the sight: a six-foot-four Indian guy and a blond-haired, blue-eyed girl in a land where 98 per cent of the people are black-haired, brown-skinned and around five foot tall. Fitting in here should be mildly challenging.
We wandered into what looked like an old run-down stall from the outside, and were greeted by the most beautiful woodwork inside. Cabinets, tables, wall hangings, all intricately carved. The artist proudly showed me a binder filled with clippings of his woodwork in magazines and catalogues.
I did a double-take when I registered the price of a richly detailed dresser. It was 37,500 Rupees-about six Canadian dollars. I couldn’t quite come to terms with the fact that I could buy a dresser I would have never hoped to afford back home for the price of an extra value meal at McDonalds.
I’m still grappling with the fact that I, a struggling university student, am very rich on a world scale. But what really bothers me is that the people that made these works of art do so in the dirt of the same shack, most likely living in the nearby neighbourhood in a similar structure. A person with this type of talent and work ethic in Canada would be much wealthier.
Any illusion that I have earned what I have in the world is fast disappearing. Does he deserve this life? Do I deserve mine?
