I have seen many disabled people here, many with terrible deformities. There is the street of the blind, where the blind people stand every few meters, ringing bells. There is the one legged man who walks using his able leg and two arms, bent, head down, gorilla-like. There is the woman who holds her child in a sling, pacing through the traffic in the hot midday sun.
But nothing prepared me for this.
My girls and I emerge from the shops at Myestik, each holding a bag of fabric for new dresses. I watch as a mother spreads a blanket on the cracked concrete between the line of parked cars and the gravel road. She sits down, and then I see her daughter.
I consider shielding my own daughters from this sight, steering them in a different direction. But Meya squeezes my hand, and I know she has seen.
The child on the blanket turns her head to look at us. Where a mouth and nose should be, there is only a gaping black hole. Three teeth poke out at odd angles between her eyes. She cannot close her mouth, because the hole is too large.
She turns away from us, and I see that the cleft palate is not her only burden.
Bulbous growths protrude from the side of her head and back. Large and pink, the size of grapefruits.
She snuggles into her mother, her face against her mother's chest. Just the way my own children do when they feel shy.
I cannot open my wallet fast enough. But I stare at the bills. I feel sick. What can I give that could possibly express how sorry I am? What can I give that will provide any relief? I take out the most I have ever given and offer it to the mother.
She accepts with gratitude, but I am haunted. It is not enough. I'm not sure anything would be enough.
As we drive away, I clutch at my own children, pulling them to me. I hold their perfect hands and lean against their perfect heads. My gratitude has no words. But guilt is mingled with it. Guilt at too often, too little gratitude for all I have been blessed with.
There is a sadness. I carry it with me like a package throughout the day. It fills my hands and hurts my heart. But unlike the plastic bags from Myestik, this sadness, I cannot put down.
Sometimes Jakarta breaks my heart.
We show them Jakarta. We ride elephants. We brave the tropical heat.
We show them Puncak where the mountain sides are carpeted with emerald tea bushes, where the clouds play tag across the blue sky, and where gardens bloom.
We play croquet on the Merisole lawn. We hike the volcano to the triple waterfalls. We drive past the terraced rice fields that lay before us like a green quilt. Tufts of rice plants in perfect rows.
We watch the sunset from the Hilltop restaurant.
