From Sept 25th; couldn't get to an internet cafe before now...

I wanted to sleep tonight, but my mind wouldn't take a rest until I jotted this down.

So, some background. Pak Pri is my ojek man. His job is to drive a motor-bike taxi. The passenger just sits behind him on the bike. Definitely not what’d you call safe, but this is Indonesia, man. Every day you wake up, you’re taking a risk of some kind. And this isn’t cultural imperialism as much as it’s just the truth.

Okay. Pak Pri is a talkative, mustachio’d guy of around 50. For some bizarre reason he has really taken a liking to me, and I him. I have his number, and I call when I want to be picked up from the gym where I work out. Every ride I take is interesting; he has made it his mission to teach me Javanese (even though just learning Bahasa Indonesia is difficult in itself…then they throw ANOTHER language at you!...) and when he isn’t teaching me new words, we have delightful conversations about the weather, about America, about Ramadan, the usual. But last Thursday we passed a pretty standard (okay, maybe below standard…) warung, and he yelled out (and actually grabbed my leg, which was weird): this was his house! His business! Would I come over for a drink? I was pretty confused by this so I declined, on the excuse that it was almost 9 pm and I needed to get home. But he brought it up again tonight, and I have come to see what a legit guy he is, so I took him up on the offer.

First, he introduced me to “Mama Pri,” “Bu Pri,” his wife (this is actually the way he introduced her). She cooks the food at this place. She is a nice looking, older middle-aged woman with short hair and a look that says “I am a strong Muslim woman; don’t mess,” but she gave me a smile and hello. Pak made me go inside the tarped eating area, asked what I wanted to drink, and made up my iced tea. He stood around, didn’t bug me while I drank, but casually introduced me to a few people while he surveyed his business. He made sure I knew the iced tea was on the house a few times. So I drank, I talked a bit, I thanked his family, wished a billion Happy Idul Fitris, and left. Pak kept mentioned the telephone whenever I said happy Idul Fitri, so I don’t know if this means I’m supposed to call him to wish him a Happy Idul Fitri (this is the equivalent of Christmas in terms of how Muslims celebrate), or that he’s going to call me, or neither. But regardless, this was by far one of the most unexpected, truly wonderful things that has happened to me here, and, I think, indicative of how warm and stranger-friendly Indonesian people just are. Could you maybe see why I don’t want to go home?