Lately I have been thinking about the similarities between Africa and Indonesia. I keep track of Juana, El espacio de juana, a colombian journalist living in Uganda and so I know that the way mothers carry their babies, the crazy traffic, the public transport, the short warm relationships you establish with anonymous people on the street...they're the same. There, she is a mzungu, here, I am a bule.
I have also been thinking about many things I wanted to have done in Indonesia and I haven't been able to. Like going to the Rambutan Forest, visiting Siak, eating roasted corn at the street near Pekanbaru airport at night... And so many places I wanted to visit: Danau Toba, Papua, Lombok...
Now my time is up. I can always come back but I have a bitter taste in my mouth. Maybe it's the taste of defeat maybe it's only the chili.
In three months in Indonesia I have lived more things that I could ever imagine, more things than back at home in a full year. Maybe that's why although I got myself busted I feel it has been worth. I feel I have been through important meaningful experiences that can only help me in my future.
"Last year I traveled 40.000 kilometers maybe that's why I feel inmortal"
Graham Greene.
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