The sun sets high in Yogya

Chairil Gibran Ramadhan

I arrived at 6:15 a.m., weighed down by my backpack. I wiped the sweat from my forehead, with my mother's words of worry still ringing in my ears: "A girl shouldn't travel alone. And what will you get up to anyway?"

I did not answer because I was leaving for no purpose and nobody. I was simply sick of staying in my room, my city, staring at the numbers on my computer screen, trudging through life.

It was from boredom rather than aversion to anything.

A becak driver rode close to me.

"You need a place to stay, mbak? I know a cheap homestay. Just pay me a thousand rupiah for the ride. Come on, mbak, don't worry, it's safe."

"What's the room rate?"

"Only Rp 12,500. It's not so bad. A thousand for the becak, yeah."

"OK."

The pedicab left the station, into the simmering Yogyakarta morning heat.

I got my room, and prepared to rest. I was not in a hurry. The nine-hour train ride left me sore, and I had been worn out by the talkative young man sitting next to me.

"Going to Solo or Yogya, mbak?"

"Yoyga."

"I'm stopping at Solo Balapan. On your own?"

"You, too, are alone, aren't you?"

"But you're a young woman."

"Any difference?"

"No, but..."

"Sorry, I have to rest, so sleepy," I said, turning to the window.

***

I woke up as the call to prayer gradually snuck into my dreams. I took a cold shower and set off.

I left Sosrowijayan for a walk along Malioboro. It was a hot day. Vendors of food and drink, clothes and handicrafts packed the sidewalks. Before my departure, Wiwik, my childhood neighbor who moved to Yogyakarta 11 years earlier with her police officer father, called and warned: "Don't forget to ask the price of any food or drink first. All food stalls here often overcharge. It's no use to complain after eating because they won't give in. They're only thinking about today's profit."

"My friends who've been there told me the same thing."

"It's because the tourists give them a big profit. But only tourists, particularly foreigners, are their target."

"So they don't do it to you locals?"

"Of course not."

"What if they demand a high price the moment I ask?"

"That's the risk. So try to speak Javanese."

"Doesn't it create a bad image of their city, if the tourists refuse to return and the bad news spreads by word of mouth?"

"Unfortunately they never think about it. And the charm of city is too strong to resist."

"They should realize that not all tourists are well off. Lots of them have to save their money for months, even years, or borrow from their family for their trip."

"Yes, like you used to do."

We both laughed.

I didn't want to bother Wiwik though she and her father Pak Bahruddin offered for me stay with them while I was there. But I thought one or two nights would be all right as I missed her, though in fact I preferred to be all by myself.

"Mbak, you want to buy bakpia or T-shirts? Only five hundred for the ride," was the same offer I heard dozens of times. Then I went by a horse-drawn carriage without bargaining for the fare. Wiwik told me to pay only two thousand rupiah from Malioboro to the palace, so I didn't need to haggle with the coachman.

I saw that Yogyakarta was a neat city, where pedestrians had no fear of being hit by motor vehicles when they crossed the road. It was not like Jakarta, where drivers had no respect for pedestrians but stood to lose their life at the hands of an angry crowd if they accidentally ran into someone.

"Eight thousand in change, ya," I said as I stepped down from the carriage in front of the court, handing a ten thousand rupiah banknote.

The coachman returned two thousand rupiah to me.

"Six thousand more, mas."

"That's enough, mbak."

"The fare is just two thousand, isn't it?"

He did not answer.

"Eight thousand rupiah from Malioboro?!" I gave him a wide- eyed stare. "It's too much!"

The coachman left without a word.

***

I gazed at rain-soaked Malioboro. It was my ninth day in this city. I gad stayed two nights with Wiwik in my first few days.

I ordered a complete gudeg dish and a glass of hot sweet tea. On my right were two young men with guitars singing a Javanese song. On my left, a woman of about 40 shook her tambourine and hummed an unfamiliar tune.

Two steps away from me, a long-haired youth played his guitar and sang a song once granted the Yogyakarta sultan's award.

Nobody could tell the number of street singers at night. One singer to deal with was alright, but what if they came one after another?

Fortunately, they knew how to behave. A raised right palm was enough to turn them away. None of them pushed like in Jakarta, where such singers should more properly be called muggers. I was once a victim around the National Monument, one of their hunting grounds.

I ate the gudeg. It was far less tasty than the cooking of Bude Nani, whose stall opposite my college was my favorite dining place. Commercialization had again spoiled everything. All the food was cooked fast and in large amounts without any culinary touches. It was all about the money.

"Are you from Jakarta, dik?" asked a woman carrying a big leather handbag who sat beside me.

"Yes ..."

"So am I." Then she talked at length about herself: she was in Yogyakarta to find her husband, who had gone away with their only child. She was sure her spouse would be in his hometown.

"Do you know his address?"

"That's the problem, dik. I've visited his parents' house, only to find it already sold. Neighbors and new residents said my mother-in-law and her other four children had moved six months ago."

"Where to?"

"To Magelang, the neighbors said, but they had no idea of the exact place. They were embarrassed by my father-in-law, who was jailed for corruption. Many people are corrupt now, dik."

"So, what do you plan to do, mbak?"

"I'm going to carry on my search, dik. At worst, I'll have to go back to Jakarta."

"Have you eaten yet?"

The woman leaned toward me, her eyes brimming with tears.

"All my money was stolen by pickpockets on the train. Now I don't know what to do. I've been roaming the streets for two days," she said.

She lowered her voiced and leaned in closer.

"The thought of making money at Sarkem sometimes occurs to me. Why should I go back to Jakarta? There's only a small house with two months' rent overdue. People at the station say Sarkem is a place to earn money."

My smile turned sour as I heard her words. Wiwik told me Sarkem, the flower market, was where men could find prostitutes. I beckoned to the waiter and ordered another helping of gudeg and hot tea. Though not a good meal, it was enough to fill an empty stomach.

"No, dik ..."

"Never say no to luck, mbak. I know you haven't dined yet."

She grinned. While savoring every mouthful, she told her story again in detail, from her parents' disapproval of her marriage because of differences in faith, to her husband being seduced by another woman.

The evening was getting late and chilly.

"If your search fails, why don't you go back to Jakarta?" I said after she had finished eating and talking.

"I have no relatives there. My parents and seven brothers and sisters live in Bandung. I'm the eldest."

"Then you can just go to Bandung."

"I'm sure they won't accept me, especially abah. I've been disowned since I went off with mas Suryo.

"You should keep praying. God will listen, trust me. But I think the best thing to do is to return to Bandung if you can't find your kid. Apologize to your parents. That's better than living alone in Jakarta and renting a house, let alone working at Sarkem."

She stooped over again, "I'm in a muddle, dik..."

"And if you later find your husband and get your child back, you'd better seek a divorce. You still have many nice men to choose from, take my word."

She remained silent, taking a long sigh.

I looked at her face. It's the fate of some women to be the victims of men: betrayed, ordered around, scolded, beaten up, tortured, raped and killed. Yet I don't sympathize with women who hate men and choose to turn to their same sex by claiming it is their right. For me, it's not a solution. It's ignorance, artificial and overly dramatic behavior. We've got to use our brains.

"I can't afford more than this, mbak." I slipped her Rp 30,000.

"No, dik, you needn't ..."

"Please accept this. It's a blessing from God through my hand. It may be just enough for the train fare. But you could still add some more by selling your earrings."

"I don't feel I deserve all this."

"It's OK, mbak."

"Thank you, thank you," she said, bowing low as she walked away.

***

I was waiting at the station when a young woman holding a big bag sat next to me. "Are you going to Jakarta, mbak?"

I smiled and nodded.

"Me too ...," she said without being asked. "Any business there?"

"Going home."

"Vacation over? How long have you been in Yogya?"

"Two weeks," was my terse reply. I began to dislike her inquisitiveness. I wished she knew I was not a talker.

"I'm trying to find my husband," she told me. "He ran away, carrying all my jewelry and our five year old. Neighbors said he'd gone to stay with his brother in Jakarta. Both his parents in Yogya are dead. When I asked for help, all his relatives disowned him and me. We lived in the same village and he was my nearby neighbor."

Deja vu? I was smiling inside. Like Indian films churned out without any flair, the story this time had a different setting and actress.

"I had back luck. I was robbed of all my money on the bus, leaving only my bag." She pointed at the bag she's hugging. "It contains only clothes."

I forced a smile. The face of the woman from the other night flashed into my mind. She could be enjoying herself with the thirty thousand rupiah I'd given her.

"I'm not sure if I have to remain in Jakarta or not. I don't even know if I can eat tonight. It makes me ashamed to return to Kaliurang. How can I ask for more money? I may just make money at Sarkem this evening."

"Why should you be ashamed? You're not going to steal. They're your own parents. So you'd better go back first to get some money for the Jakarta trip."

The woman gave no answer, her eyes showing uneasiness.

"Sorry, I can't help." I held tighter onto my backpack.

She looked down, in tears.

"I must go now, the train is here."

"Perhaps you could spare two thousand rupiah for my dinner?"

I gently pushed away her hand. "Sorry, find someone else. I've got just enough for myself."

The woman sneered. But I didn't care.

I boarded the train. From the window I saw the woman approaching and speaking to a youth. I couldn't hear her words but I watched her taking a handful of money from the long-haired young man.

The sun was climbing high in Yogya.

Translated by Aris Prawira

Glossary:

Becak : pedicab/tricycle Mbak : Javanese term of address for a woman Dik : term for a younger man or woman Pak : term for an older man Mas : Javanese term for a younger or older man Bude : Javanese term for a woman or aunt Abah : Sundanese term for a father Bakpia : steamed dumpling with various fillings Gudeg : Young jackfruit cooked in spicy coconut milk, a specialty of Yogykarta