As far as I remember, my travel experience began when I was around four years old. Not that I did not travel before that, I just can not remember if it ever happened. I can not remember the day or the time, but there is a part in my brain that made a flashback of the time when I was on the bus, sitting on my mother lap, on our way to Pekanbaru from Aceh. It was a long ride. It took more than two days and nights to get there. Of course the long ride was not my concern at that time, but now I realize it was a long tiring journey. Especially when you are a mother traveling alone with two kids under the age of 6. I do not know how my mother could do that. The more I think about that, the more respect I have for her.
This memory, of me on the bus sitting on my mother lap, and my six years old sister sleeping on the bus floor just right under my mother’s feet, was something I am not sure whether it happened the way I remember it or it happens from a made up stories I heard from my mother and my sister. I am sure what happened was the truth, but the way it happened, it could have been a plot to make it sounds dramatic and funny or to make it memorable.
As I recall, I was on the bus sitting on my mother lap, on our journey to visit my mother’s brother, and the more I say it the more positive the feeling I have toward that scene. That familiar scene from a distant past, of me throwing up an uncontrolled stream on my sister’s face, who were laying down on the bus floor just right under my mother’s feet. Surprised, she could not even cry, fearing the slobbery sticky liquid mixed with whatever I ate that day might get into her mouth. At least, that’s how I think the story went. The memory ended there. I do not know what happened next, nor did my sister every time I asked her about that. I may be able to laugh it off if I think or tell that one small fact about the trip, but I also feel the sense full of sympathy for my mother. For she is the reason this story can be told. Even in a very short way.