Coming to Australia

I remember waking up to the steady humming of airplane engine. Outside the dawn was breaking and the clouds were tinted with a collection of crimson hues. I couldn’t sleep well that night. Aside from the fact that I wasn’t allowed to spread newspaper and slept on the floor, I was still struggling to fit the idea of going to a foreign country into my head. It was so unreal. As unreal as receiving that phone call telling me that I’ve got the scholarship, spending 6 weeks in Bali to work on my English, or looking at my own picture on a passport. I have always wanted to go abroad since I was a kid. I have always envied the people who traveled to foreign countries. But I’ve never thought that someday I would really be able to. Then there was the voice of the pilot announcing that we were about to land in Sydney. Newsflash, village boy, this IS real.

I queued through custom and immigration and was immediately confronted by the harsh truth that my connecting flight to Newcastle was not due until 4 in the afternoon. Big, fat bummer. So I sat there in the arrival lounge of Sydney airport feeling like I was in some sort of dream. To start with, I have never seen that many Caucasians in one room. My teacher back in college was an American. I had British instructors for my course in Bali. I did see a fair number of them in Kuta. But not like this. Not this many. It’s like, they were everywhere. After all, this is their country.

And then there was the small but disconcerting fact that everything was in English. The signs, the announcements, the newspaper, the TV, and the conversation I overheard from a couple sitting next to me. All those years of studying English, watching Hollywood movies, listening to English songs, and even teaching English for a living, nothing prepared me for this. Nothing prepared me for such overwhelming onslaught to my senses. Books, songs, movies, and classes are controlled environments. You know you can always pause a movie, stick your head out of the window, and order ketoprak from a passing vendor. Now, Sydney airport arrival lounge is a real deal, a real-live interactive environment. Add Australian accent into the equation, and it can be a bit freaky. I actually had to work up the courage and mentally arrange my sentences before coming up to a Vodafone dealer to purchase a SIM card. When I did, I couldn’t understand half the things the man was saying. I had an unshakeable belief that I would wet my pants if they sent me to Egypt.

Nonetheless, all of the above is a sniff compared to the upside. In less than 24 hours, I have managed to cross a zillion things from the things-to-do-before-I-die list. Drink champagne, checked. It was during the flight and, for the record, it’s actually sparkling wine—but what’s the difference? Pee on an airplane, checked. Twice, it’s the wine. Standing on a foreign soil, checked. Exhaling vapor just like they do in movies, checked. It’s the first day of winter, anyway. Board a subway, check. It was a two minute trip from international to domestic terminal. Being frisked by a female wearing uniform, checked. I must have looked like an Al Qaeda operative. I didn’t mind at all.

I have also broadened my gastronomic horizon within that short period of time. I was introduced to hash brown. I haven’t got a clue as to what they did to the potato, and I’m not keen to find out, but it was magnificent. My first meal outside my motherland consisted of two hash browns and a chicken drumstick, courtesy of the omnipresent McDonald. Yes, it was a shame indeed. I have always pictured my first meal to be something Australian like croc-burger or kangaroo ribs. But hey, it wasn’t all that bad. Having McDonald in a western country is somewhat similar to eating empek-empek in Palembang.

For lunch I decided to be more adventurous and chose kebab. Thinly sliced, roasted, fatty sheep meat covered in gravy. I could almost hear my arteries screaming in agony as the calorie and the fat hit the system. But it was good. It was generous helping as well. For the first time in my life I couldn’t finish a meal. And it was the small sized portion. I was tempted to try the fried rice in a Chinese restaurant. But then I thought, if I had wanted to eat rice, I might as well stay in Jakarta.

After wandering aimlessly for ages, I finally checked in for my flight to Newcastle. An hour later, I was sitting in a twin propeller airplane, bumping its way through the clouds above Australia’s eastern coast. It had been one hell of a day. But the day still had a bit of nice surprise in store. Upon arrival, I was met by a man wearing a black suit and burgundy tie. He was holding a board and it had my name on it. No mistake in spelling. You know, everytime I went to an airport, and even that's a rare occasion, these guys always caught my attention. Neatly dressed, they stood and held their board so that people arriving from the flight could see them. I had always imagined that the people they were meant to meet were of high importance. At least those who didn't have to worry about paying back their wives' jewelleries from from a pawnshop. In the past the names, of course, were of somebody else's, like Mr. Bennet or Ms. Takahasi. So when I saw 'Mr. Widyasmoro' neatly written on a board, the feeling was undescribeable. I wish I had had a camera so I could take his picture and sent it to my folks back home. Later I learnt his name was Alan and he was a jovial guy. Oh, well. Being picked up by an immaculately dressed chauffeur? Checked.