Now for that story I promised you all, about the “Blangkon”.
A blangkon is the traditional head attire worn by the Javanese. It is proudly worn during official functions or as part of traditional dress when a special occasion arises.
In my previous post A life changing “Habitats for Humanity” exchange, I was staying at the exquisite Royal Ambarrukmo Hotel in Java’s’ central province YogYakarta. In that story, I briefly mentioned the bus trip to the build site. So now allow me to elaborate on that part of the story.
On our first morning, we all gathered in the lobby of the hotel where we were separated into our previously designated teams for the transfer to the “Rock The House” build site. A medium sized plaque was placed on the windscreen of each minibus and we quickly found our “B4” allocated sign and the eleven of us piled in. The bus moved off amid the chatter of us all getting to know each other, and then we passed the security guard check-point of the hotel car park. The guards had white helmets and armed to the teeth.
It felt a little surreal but I took it all in, being in a different country. After plunging into the heavy traffic and floating around the sea of motor bikes and scooters, there was little conversation other than the nervous banter and astonished remarks of this so very different road behaviour.
We approached an intersection of two major roads, slowed down and stopped. Suddenly I heard the automatic door locks slam into the lock position. As I pondered and explored the reasons for such an action, I began to reflect on my childhood memories. The experience brought back the fears, the sights, the smells, the flashbacks. I felt tears running down my face, and I’m sure I heard the tear drops hit the minibus floor …. “aduh” (how embarrassing in Indonesian)…. here is a grown man, a mature adult, I might add, sitting in a bus balling his eyes out. I must have been a sight..!
The build team “B4” that I was travelling with happened to notice my condition of distress and pleaded with me to offer a hint as to the trigger of my distress.
I began to tell them my story. This story I had previously blogged about in a tribute on Mothers day this year. Peering through my fingers, I then noticed that there was not a dry eye in the bus, I forced myself to take my hands from my face, straighten up, dry my eyes and remember where I was.
I realised that I had slipped back in time and was in a post traumatic condition where I was sent back in time to my childhood and was exorcising my own demons. Thank goodness that I was with a caring and sensitive group that would allow me to save face and regain my composure from this embarrassing situation.
KAren Swain was sitting beside me offering a tissue while Jarrett Yap dropped more tissues over my shoulder from where he was sitting in the minibus. I can’t imagine what Karen Green was thinking, poor girl? However, KAren Swain pursued me further to share my story publicly. At first I was reluctant, because I was feeling vulnerable and struggling to understand what had happened.
To experience the full affect of my story I will encourage you to follow the link to my 2016 Mothers Day tribute and read it to the end, there in, is the essence of that story which I shared that day on the minibus: “Reflections on Mothers day”
The story of my breakdown swiftly travelled across the camp and consequently I was gingerly prompted by many that had heard, to recall those times of distress. I guess that this was a therapeutic experience when, at first, I was reluctant to tell my story.
I struggled with my thoughts flashing in and out of period. I could hear the faint memory of a joke that Karen and I share from time to time which ends with an endearing …. “get over it”. Eventually I regained my confidence by witnessing our current situation, at the build, amongst the local children and their families.
In the final hour of the build, Martin Thomas conducted the hand over to the receiving family, their friends, the construction supervisors and the minibus driver who had the responsibility of our daily transfers. We all had a chance to say something at this momentous occasion, but I struggled to hold back the tears. The team knew what the tears were for when Martin encouraged me to share my feelings with the family. There I explained briefly the affinity I had with Bapak Simba (The grand father). During his youth and mine, we shared an untold experience that was still to be talked about in both our communities. And now I have returned to see the sharing and caring of what we are all doing together. When translated in Bahasa to Bapak Simba, through Ari (our building supervisor), I could then see a different look in his eyes as though the sun shone through the clouds as he welled up and nodded. The surprised stares of the onlooking Indonesians listening in, were also showing signs of affect, and so was the driver who we had all forgotten about until he showed his appreciation that was duly translated for us.
On our return to the hotel, I waited for the right moment to alight from the bus, then made it a point to remove my personal “rock the house” cap and place it on the drivers head. Both of us speechless, because there was no need to say anything, in fear of an unwanted display of emotion, he clasped his hand together and bowed as he accepted it with delight.
I bought a blangkon from a market place…. With renewed vigour, I inquired at the information centre in the adjacent supermarket. “Would I offend anybody if I was to wear this Blangkon at a function?” The information receptionist assured me that the local Indonesians would be honoured to see a seemingly westerner choose to wear a blangkon to an official function. She put it in a way which compared the wearing of an American NY baseball cap in a New York baseball game by a foreigner. Yes, in fact it would be more than just well received.
I asked permission of my partner Karen if she would allow me to wear it in public and would she accompany me to the H4H concluding function in Yogyakarta. Now this was a tall ask, wasn’t it?
That night, preparing for dinner, I placed the Blangkon on my head, fearfully glimpsed in the mirror and tentatively opened my door of the room where I was staying at the Royal Ambarrukmo Hotel Yogyakarta. I proceeded down the corridor to the lift where I encountered the first reaction. My heart skipped a beat. The figure in front of me joined his hands in a praying position bowed and uttered “Malam”, which translated, means “evening”.
I survived the first encounter, again I was feeling sorry for what my partner Karen had to experience alongside of me. The lift doors opened and exposed me to the Lobby where the entire H4H congregated…. no turning back now. I felt Karen’s hand placed firmly between my shoulder blades encouraging me forward and out of the lift to greet the first reaction from the team. First to step up was Elinor with tears in her eyes… I forgot exactly what she said, it was something like “you’ve come out”, but what ever it was, it was emotional for both of us, because she knew my story as did everyone else by now. May I say that she too has a story to tell and so dose Suze which we may be privileged to hear on another occasion.
The kind reception I received from all the Indonesians that night as their gaze fell on my Blangkon clad forehead was astounding and heart-warming.
If it is not obvious to you yet, this is how I accepted myself as being part Indonesian, and wearing the Blangkon to dinner on that final evening was a formal and public display of that. I guess that this is what our old time western culture intends to create in a debut. The whole event enabled me to feel good about myself, and I thank Elinor for her endearing first reaction, My partner Karen for holding my hand through this and the rest of the team for being receptive.
The opinion from the information receptionist was correct. The reactions that I received was no less than respectfully endearing.
Having been brought up by an Australian mother and an Indonesian father, it is now time for me to say that I am proud and comfortable to be an Indonesian too.
