The Widow of Wonosobo

The Widow of Wonosobo

Yundi Aditya

He had been traveling for a long time. That's what he told us
when we first met, and I think it was true.

He looked tired, and he was so quiet. He had the look of a man
who had been on the road for many days and weeks. He wasn't like
the other tourists that came our way.

I'm used to them by now. After all, I make my living mostly by
guiding them around the Dieng Plateau and visiting all the candi
(temples) ruins there.

No, he wasn't like them.

I'm always courteous and pleasant toward all tourists and they
generally try to be the same toward me, but often you can sense a
dismission in their attitude. Some of them smile and say nice
things to your face then insult you behind your back, like some
German tourists recently.

They spoke kind words to me in English, and not knowing that I
spoke some German, they were unaware that I had heard them call
me a "silly village boy who knows nothing".

But I never let things like that bother me. Many of the
tourists are here just to take their photographs; they have no
idea about the spirituality of this part of Java and so they
learn very little.

But he was different. From the very first day I met him, I
sensed that his soul was genuine and honest.

He cared about all the people he met, no matter who they were.
He came to visit the Dieng Plateau for all the right reasons. He
was not some arrogant, camera-happy tourist; it was almost as
though he was here on a pilgrimage.

On his first two days, I went with him to the plateau and we
visited three candi.

He had a guidebook, but I still felt I should tell him a
little of what I knew. When I tried, though, he just said,
"Please, it's OK. I know enough about these temples already. I
just want to appreciate them. We can talk later, OK?"

For a moment I felt insulted, but then I looked into his eyes
and saw the truth. He was not dismissing me; he was asking for
some time and the peace and quiet he needed to be as one with
this place that meant so much to him.

The more time I spent with him, the more I enjoyed being with
him. It wasn't as though he was trying to develop a connection
with me, and I could never talk to him as a friend, but there
just seemed to be something magnetic about him. I was drawn to
him just because he was who he was.

Yet I knew practically nothing about him. I knew he came from
a European country; he spoke English with a slight accent that
suggested he may have been French, but I couldn't really tell and
when I asked him, he simply said he was "from the West" and I
instantly felt that I should ask no more.

It wasn't that he was antisocial or distant. It was just that
he was quiet and calm and that somehow, all the usual touristy
questions like "where do you come from?", "are you married?" and
"how long are you staying in Indonesia?" all seemed pointless and
worthless.

Even when it came to his name, he seemed different. He told me
his name was Adam, and soon the locals were calling him "Mr.
Adam". But politely and quietly, he would insist, "Just Adam,
please." It's crazy to call him in such an informal, familiar
way, because he'd only been with us for a couple of days, but
everyone seemed to accept him.

He seemed to be a friend to everyone, but still distant
somehow. We never really knew who he was.

But then, on the third day disaster struck. We returned from
the plateau after a very hot and dusty day there. Again, I was
doing little more than following him as he calmly went about his
tour, but on the way back to the village by mini-bus, his face
reddened and he began to cough.

He became feverish and soon had to lie down in the back seat.
He was gasping for air and I got desperate, screaming at the
driver to get us to the nearest clinic and a doctor.

By the time we reached one, he had to be carried to the
emergency room. I was in a panic and the doctor ordered me to
leave. I refused, but a nurse escorted me out.

I waited outside, distraught. Minutes felt like hours and I
decided to call my father, as more than an hour had passed. He
tried to calm me and told me to be patient. "Give the good doctor
time. He will be able to help your friend."

Moments later, the "good doctor" came out to give me the bad
news. From my panicked state he must have seen how much I was
concerned, so he tried to be as gentle as he could -- but there
was no way to be gentle about this kind of news.

"I am afraid," he began and my heart sank, "your friend is
going through a complete biological breakdown. His entire body
seems to be in collapse. There is nothing we can do; it's just a
matter of time. I have tried ." He continued with a list of
medical treatments and medicines that he had applied in the last
hour or so, but nothing was working.

Then the doctor said something that literally switched on a
light bulb in my head: "It's almost as if he is possessed and the
spirits are taking him from this world." I could hardly believe
that a doctor would say such a thing, but it told me clearly what
I must do. I must seek the help of the Widow of Wonosobo.

Adam, this stranger from Europe, was ill. But then again, he
wasn't really a stranger; he was already somehow a friend. He was
somebody that I already cared about so much. All the medical
advice that the good doctor had offered could do not help him, so
I was willing to try something almost unthinkable.

As soon as the idea came to me, I called my father. My words
came thick and fast and my father could tell that trying to calm
and soothe me wouldn't work. Still, he tried to reason with me.

"The Widow of Wonosobo? You want to take this foreigner to see
her? But my son, she will not see him. You know how difficult it
is for even us to see her. Do you really think she will agree to
see your sick tourist friend?"

That expression irritated me. I snapped, "He is not just a
tourist, father! He is different, and besides this is desperate.
He's going to die! We have to do something now!" The desperation
in my voice must have been clear, because my father's tone
suddenly changed.

"OK, OK. I'll speak to your uncle. We'll come and pick you up.
In the meantime, I'll send your mother off to try and get an
appointment with the Widow. I hope for your sake that she will be
merciful."

"I hope for Adam's sake that she will be," I prayed, and
wondered whether I was doing the right thing, but what else could
I do?

Back at the clinic, I told the doctor our plan. For a moment,
his eyebrows rose in a skeptical expression, but with resignation
he said, "There is nothing I can do for him. If the Widow will
see him, perhaps she can save him, but I really don't know."

I wasn't sure if his last statement referred to her seeing him
or saving him. But the thought soon escaped my mind as we bumped
along in my uncle's car on the dirt roads, making our way to the
Widow's house high in the hills of Wonosobo.

The roads were terrible and I tried to protect Adam's head as
on the back seat. His condition only seemed to be getting worse.
Occasionally, he would open his eyes, but there seemed to be no
life nor recognition in them. It was as though he was already on
his way out.

The road ran through a dense forest so that even though it was
still daylight, it almost appeared as though dusk was falling.
Then we emerged into a small clearing and I saw my mother walking
towards the car. Her face was a mix of two related emotions --
great concern and great curiosity.

I was surprised when she spoke to my father and instead of
asking immediately about Adam's condition, she said something so
strange, but which gave me an odd sense of hope.

"The Widow knows him."

My father said nothing. We were all silent as we began to lift
him gently out of the car, when we heard a voice call out.

"Stop, I am coming."

I turned to see the Widow of Wonosobo for the first time.

She was a tiny and frail old lady. Her face was so wrinkled
and weary that it was difficult to find her eyes. They were
deeply set and very dark, but an incredible aura of wisdom seemed
to surround this small figure slowly making her way to the car.

My father moved toward her as if to help, but she waved him
away.

"I do not need help. I am the giver of help here." And with a
crooked finger, she pointed to Adam.

"I shall help him, as he shall help so many others. I knew
that one such as he would come here. Bring him inside and then
leave us. He will survive."

She have looked weak, but her words carried power. Like
children who have been scolded, we followed her instruction with
our heads bowed.

We carried Adam into her wooden house and placed him upon the
thick floorboards that ran the length of the house. It seemed
bare of furniture, but we did not have time to look around -- as
soon as we had laid Adam's now terribly limp body on the floor,
she shooed us out.

Outside, we stood around, waiting and wondering what was
happening inside. Nothing made any sense.

She said she knew him, but how could that be? She seemed to
know exactly what to do, and she had no negative reaction to a
foreigner, as we had feared she might.

My uncle almost looked like he was angry, his hands thrust in
his pockets and kicking stones in the dirt in front of the house.

I recalled the Widow's words, I shall help him, as he shall
help so many others. It started to make sense.

The Widow was a mystic; she had ways and skills that nobody
understood, and I sensed the same when I was with Adam. He too
was some kind of mystic. That's why the temples on the plateau
meant so much to him. He was in touch with the spirits there.

But still, like the Widow, he could not deny his physical
reality. The Widow was old and frail, could hardly move without
the aid of her walking stick, and he too had fallen victim to a
physical malady. Was it a virus, or was it some kind of
possession as the doctor had supposed?

I was never to know. Within an hour, Adam and the Widow
emerged slowly from the house. The Widow had to at her age, and
Adam was obviously recovering his balance and poise. But it was a
miracle that he was up at all.

He had survived, as the Widow had said he would.

He looked at us all and without any words, he thanked us. Then
the Widow came to me. I was almost afraid as she approached. Her
deep, dark eyes were unreadable; I couldn't tell whether she was
angry or happy at the sight of me.

She said with reassuring calm, "You did well by bringing him
to me. I know that you think of him as a friend now, but he will
and must travel on, just as my loved one had to move on.

"He is not like you. He is more like me and that is both a
blessing and a curse. Bad spirits tried to take him, but he is
well now. He will travel and help people wherever he goes. Do not
feel sad, my dear."

Her words were soothing. Even though there was great sorrow in
them, I knew they were right and that he must move on.

Within a day, he was fully recovered and he did leave. But he
will never leave me. He is in my heart, as is the Widow of
Wonosobo. She still lives in that wooden house in the forest, but
she and Adam live in my heart. I don't really understand why, but
they do, and I am grateful for it.