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Illicitly Be
By Lovelli Ariesti | Sun, 07/20/2008 10:38 AM | Bookmark
Before fleeing to Yogyakarta, I sat for hours and hours in front of my computer, staring at the blank virtual page of the word processor, thinking that I had lost it. This was before Sunday, before I stepped on this city.
I had lost something, but I couldn't actually name what it was that I had lost, because I had lost it. Perhaps it was a feeling so novel that I couldn't quite recognize what it was, and ,thus, I carried no memory of its name.
It was 12:20 a.m. and I had a minibus coming in exactly 3 hours and 40 minutes. I was going to get a glimpse of dusk at three temples. I read a brochure displayed at the front desk offering "The Beautiful Morning Tour". It wasn't -- as usual -- my first choice. I guess you can't always get what you want and what you need at the same time.
By the way, how was your wedding? I'm really sorry for not being able to come to the reception. As usual, though, I promise you that I'll write in detail about everything. You won't miss a thing.
I just had dinner. A bowl of gudeg in a place that claimed to be serving a version of the traditional dish. I think originality is crap. How can you possibly claim that something is original when every other vendors claim the same thing? Gather a group of people who claim to be original and just one who doesn't, then everything is turned upside down and inside out.
The non-original is original in its truest sense. Originality is a sacred thing. Too much of it can never be enough, yet enough is already too much.
I didn't finish the gudeg because I didn't like it. I remember the rib soup that you used to make every Friday. Does she know that you can cook? And, by the way, you still owe me that story about the day your parents set the two of you up. You have got to tell me every single detail.
The trip to the three temples was great. I slept for three very short hours and awoke by a knock on my door. The bell boy said he had been knocking for several minutes. I woke up abruptly, realizing that the minibus was already waiting for me outside. I grabbed my thingamajigs, camera, notebook and a pen that I later found out to be inkless, and spent some time tying the strings of my boots.
A driver and a tour guide were waiting for me outside. He gave me my breakfast in a white box -- a banana, chocolate bread and a glass of mineral water. I had no intention of digesting them.
We went straight to Mertua Hotel (the Parent-in-law Hotel) to fetch two other tourists. A strange name for a hotel, don't you think? Positioned on the outskirts of Yogyakarta, the hotel was completely isolated from any tourist attraction.
Two men came out of the hotel, looking fairly pale. My guess was that they were either French or Irish. I had a friend who was Irish. His name was Paul and he was a generous story teller. So I had a strong feeling that my guess was drawn from my memory of him.
I still keep that postcard you sent me when you went to New York. It was one of the many painfully intimate memorabilia I hide inside my treasure chest.
Do you still remember the chest that we bought when we went to that accidental flea market next to your house? You tricked me into buying one for your mother, who laughed hysterically when she opened it and saw the frog we hid inside it.
The tour guide, who sat on the passenger's seat next to the driver, who was named after our first president, started with an introduction of the tour -- in English, I might add. He went on and on about the purpose of the trip and the legend behind the three temples. Half way through I fell asleep.
When I opened my eyes the sun was already shining bright outside. I had missed the sun rise. As the tour guide pointed at Mount Merapi or some of it (most of the mountain was covered in clouds) I reached for my camera and soon found out that the battery was flat. I had forgotten to check it earlier last night. The spare battery on the bottom of my tote bag was also uncharged. I sweated over the possibility of not having any pictures of me and the three temples.
I called you several times last night. Why didn't you answer? Have you told her about us? I kept my promise and I didn't tell him about you. I miss missing you, kissing you. Frolic is the emotion of not having you by my side. We need to talk. I need to talk.
I introduced myself to the two foreigners. The first one was Frederic and his friend was Kurts. They were from Belgium and spoke little English, but a lot of Dutch.
We arrived at Borobudur Temple at 6:30. I followed the temple guide's every word and paid close attention to every item he decided to show us. The first one was the plants surrounding the park around the temple. He asked us if anyone had a lighter, so I gave him mine. He squatted and pointed at a plant, that looked very familiar to me, called putri malu, or the shy princess. The plant was scattered all over the park. Curious, I squatted with him.
He burned the edges of the branches of one plant and told me to observe the effect. Nothing happened for the first few seconds. After a long pause, the princess started to respond. One by one, slowly, the leaves shut. One branch at a time. Then, the whole plant.
The guide decided to take the long route, circling the temple first. He then guided us to climb up through the hill. It was not the main entrance, but I sure didn't mind.
There were 63 steps to climb, and each of them was quite steep. As you walk on each step, human instincts automatically control your movement. You are cautious as to survive the long climb ahead.
By the third floor, the guide was exhausted. His breath sounded heavier, and his sentences grew shorter. He showed us the bells, each with a sitting Buddha. Some of the bells were cut open, showing the upper half of the Buddhas. One bell, right next to the stairs, held a wishing Buddha. The guide told us that if we touched the Buddha's feet we would be granted one wish. I was wearing my best boots, which gave the guide a sudden panic attack. Watch your step, he shouted. I reached for the Buddha's feet, which felt sort of rough in my hands, and made my wish.
After the wishing Buddha, the guide left us. I let Frederic and Kurts have some quality time together. I hurriedly climbed down as we had only 10 minutes to browse the temple until we would have to meet at the car in the parking lot. I was faster to reach the bottom than I was going up. I looked for the exit and saw many signs. I followed one. The sign I followed took me to a complex of souvenir stalls. It was a long walk, so I stopped for some coffee -- a wake up boost. I wondered what the temple guide was doing at that moment and then I continued my walk. My watch told me that our 10 minutes was up.
After a few minutes of walking, I felt that something was wrong. It was de ja vu. I felt like I had been here before. The trees, the benches, the roads, they all looked familiar. I hastened, still following the sign post pointing towards the exit. After a long walk, I had to stop. I was amazed by what lied before me. It was a familiar sight. I had seen it somewhere before. It was a gigantic, gray carved stone sitting gloriously under the sun, which was in its full position. It was two hours after sunrise and the yellow rays had turned a bit orange. I was looking at the Borobudur Temple.
The sky was my favorite color, like carrot soup. Ironically, I was lost amidst the familiar. It wasn't cold anymore. I had long taken my blue jacket off. With my gray shirt, brown corduroy pants and a pair of black boots on, I had never felt so completely naked in my whole life. I was lost and I needed to be found. No familiar face was in sight amidst a crowd of photographers and souvenir sellers. I must've looked extremely stupid.
I walked away from the temple, still trying to follow the signs. I was quite ready to be abandoned there. If the tour minibus had chosen to leave me, I would have taken public transportation and have asked my way back to the hotel. I thought of plans and things I'd do to get me the hell out of there.
Then, I saw a man who looked like he knew the way around the area. He was wearing a white shirt and a pair of black pants. I asked him if he knew where the exit was. He pointed in one direction. Another man, who probably overheard our conversation, was also willing to help. He pointed in another direction. A woman in her 50s, carrying a bundle of miniatures and bracelets, pointed in another. All of them pointed at different directions. "Are you telling me that there are several exits?" I shouted at them in despair.
Where are you when I need you? There is something that I need to tell you, but I say it through letters. Words can only tell you what I want to show you. Remember the time you asked me if I would wait for you? I didn't answer directly, safe keeping my silence. I've been meaning to say this to you, but it's not as easy as I thought it would be. I was wrong because after that I decided not to call you or answer your calls. But now I am ready to tell you the good news, about to become parents. I am pregnant.
"Yes, there are many exits," answered the man in white and black.
"You can't be sure which one is open because we open different exists at different times. Which one of the exists do you want to go to?" he voiced a question that just popped inside my head. I remembered that my tour guide had told me he would be waiting at the entrance gate, where the minibus was parked. He had told me to get back there at 8 a.m. sharp.
All this translated into a meek answer, "The one I came from." This now makes no sense to me. How can you enter a place from its exit? And even a much more difficult question, how can you find the entrance if you follow the exit signs?
I just realized that I had made a mistake, but it made no difference now. The man looked as if he could read my mind. Obviously he understood my confusion and told me to hop in his car. I didn't realize that there was an ambulance right next to where we were standing. He was an ambulance driver. Before I got in, I looked at him and asked a silly question. "Are you serious?" His answer was the roaring gas of the ambulance.
We went out an open exit, one that I hadn't seen before. In a blink of an eye, I was right back to where I had started, at the entrance. He had drove me to the right place. Could it be that the entrance and the exit are two similar things?
***
No more letters arrived after the last one. She had disappeared completely from my life. She decided to text me on the very day I left my cell phone at home. When I arrived home, my wife told me that there were 13 missed calls from a number not stored in my mobile phone, and a text message saying good bye.
