Going home for Idul Fitri not always nice

Going home for Idul Fitri not always nice

The tradition of going home for Idul Fitri holiday is the reason
I am not very keen about the holiday itself.

At any other time of the year, I can always make excuses to my
mother not to go home to Medan, the capital of North Sumatra.

I can always say that my work is piling up to my neck and that
I don't even have time to go to the bathroom and because of that
I'm developing kidney stones, etc.

But to come up with the same lies during holidays just feels
too cruel. Besides, she would not believe it if I said that my
boss was locking me up in the office forcing me to work.

I may not fall into the category of a family man but the idea
of spending days in my old home with my folks and other family
members with whom I have always had this communication problem
just doesn't suit me.

Plus, I also have to revisit the place where all the childhood
traumas will again appear before my eyes. Sigh!

Being a struggling scriptwriter whose life is just improving
slightly, I can remember all the efforts I had to go through to
go home for holidays.

Back in my salad days, I could only afford to go home by bus.
Imagine being in a bus for three days and only stopping for
meals.

On day one, you can still pretend that you were going on a
lovely trip with nothing to see except small houses and unpretty
trees. You could count how many parabola antennas you passed if
you want to kill time.

On the first night, you begin to develop acne from bad air
circulation.

You would also want to fight with the bus driver who would put
on his favorite music which would drive you nuts.

You also had to listen to a talkative old woman who sat next
to you and you would be wondering how to politely offer her your
breath freshener.

On day two, your bottom would be numb after sitting longer
than it was designed to, and your feet would already be swollen
like a pregnant woman.

Try to visit the bus' toilet if you dare which already
provides the bus with an added odor besides the emanating from
the children vomiting on their seats.

And you would still have to come up with a nice way to offer
the talkative lady who sat next to you your breath freshener.

You would arrive on day three in your hometown, with a numb
bottom, swollen feet, a face full of acne, head stressed out and
the talkative old woman asking you to visit her sometime.

As my career life then began to see the light, I could afford
to go home by ship then. Economy class, of course.

It was a lot more comfortable than traveling on bus as you
could take a walk on board the big ship, if you could survive the
merciless race to get on board.

Since during holidays it was very hard to get a ticket which
also gives you a seat number, economy class passengers had to
race to get aboard to find the most comfortable spots where they
were going to stay for three days.

Other passengers would push you, and give you a blow with
their elbows, if you are in the way.

Everybody would race for the best spots on board, usually
below the stairs where nobody would step on them when you laid
down.

To sleep in the hallway on first class section was nice since
they got good air conditioning, but you would also have to endure
the look that first class passengers give you.

Sometimes they would look as if they pitied you, sometimes
they looked as if they wished you would throw yourself into the
sea instead of blocking their way.

During meal times, economy class passengers would have to
stand in very long line, sometimes for hours, carrying tin food
container to get our food.

What was missing was the uniforms with stripes and numbers on
them.

After the humiliation, you would arrive in your hometown with
pride removed completely from your system.

Now that my life is getting better, I can afford to go back to
Medan by airplane.

It takes me less than two hours to get there without numb
bottom, no acne, no swollen feet, head not stressed out and, so
far, no talkative old woman with bad breath. Only nice flight
attendants offering you food and drinks.

However, the quality of my visit back home is yet to improve.

I usually stay at my old home for a week during the holidays.

The first two days are usually okay since every family member
would try their best to be nice to each other.

Then by day three, the symptoms of communication problems
would begin to reemerge.

Blessed are those who were raised in a harmonious family since
there is always something which will spark an argument in my
family.

By the time you have to go back to Jakarta, you would feel
even more jealous toward those whose family picture fits into TV
commercials.

I know I am not the only one who feels this way toward going
home for the holidays.

This year, I will again go home to Medan.

Perhaps I should set a goal that my visit back home this time
will improve, just like my means of transportation to get there
has.

Perhaps this year I can really enjoy going home for the
holidays so all the money and effort to be there will not be such
a waste.

Wish me luck and I'll keep you posted!

-- Joko E.H. Anwar