by Nuril Basri
“Where to, next?” I ask, fanning my mouth. My tongue is on fire from the spicy food.
“Want to go to Prambanan?” he asks.
“Okay.” I want to see the statue of Roro Jonggrang. A woman cursed for her deceptions. Haha. A lying woman. Just like me, ya?
From Yogyakarta to Prambanan we take a tiny little busway, a looping bus that looks like a chocolate wafer. Jogja’s busways are great. Fun and efficient.
In Prambanan we see the ruins of ancient temples—some are still intact, even through the centuries. Tourists ascend and descend the temple steps, endlessly. I remember the trip I took in middle school. When I saw these temples then, they were gigantic, vast as time. Now I look at them, they seem smaller. Lesser. Maybe wonder is only something that happens when we’re young? Things become mundane with age.
I decide to climb one of the temples—but in the end I don’t dare enter where the statues are. The interiors are dark and a little creepy. I’m afraid some jinn with giant fangs and a massive club might pounce on me. So I hover about outside. Wherever I go, Inu just follows. What am I supposed to do with him?
We both descend and sit on one of the ruins. There are foreign tourists wandering about, taking photos of the temple architecture. Why have they come all this way just to look at stones? Weird, eh? Suddenly I remember the camera on my phone. Maybe this is a good moment to capture, for My Romantic Honeymoon Album. I take my compact out of my bag and do some touching up. Can’t look greasy in the photo. As I apply some lip gloss, two of the foreigners come up to us. They think I’m a celebrity, maybe? Or does the girl want to borrow my powder?
In English, the boy says: “Would you mind taking our picture? Picture, photo, please?” Inu and I look at each other. This foreigner talks to me like I don’t understand English. Inu snaps a few shots of them, with the temples in the background.
“Ask them to help us with our photo, in return,” I tell Inu, pointing at the massive camera hanging from his neck. But Inu doesn’t speak English, so he hands them the camera and mimes clicking a button. So embarrassing. Thank goodness nobody’s recording this. They get what Inu means, and nod.
So Inu and I pose in front of that ruined-temple landscape. We try to stand together—without actually touching. Two stiff statues, like cold stone stupas. The photo is taken. The boy asks us to touch. We do not move. The girl comes over to force us together.
“Don’t be shy,” she says.
Stiffly, gingerly, very reluctantly, we inch towards each other. After two snaps, it occurs to me: if I want to make Hans jealous, why shouldn’t I look like I’m cosying up to Inu in the photos? So that is what I do. And the foreigner couple clap, happy. “Don’t be shy, don’t be shy, yeah, like that!”
We head back to the lodging house, from the busway stop to the hotel on foot. (It isn’t much of a distance, but I do wish we could take one of those white horse-carriages; we are on our honeymoon, right?) While Inu is in the shower, my phone buzzes. A text from Hans. He asks where I am. I have been waiting for a message from him all day. I tell him I’m in Jogja, honeymooning. His reply?
Why didn’t you tell me?
Eh, this is my honeymoon. Why should I tell you?
No response. He must be fuming. Haha. It’s great. I feel great.
Then my phone begins to ring. I have to duck out of our room—I’m scared Inu might overhear.
“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? Trying to make me angry,” Hans says as soon as I answer.
“Not at all. Why would I need to think about you?”
I counter.
“You were jealous, weren’t you? Trying to get your revenge?”
“Why should I be jealous? Inu was the one who planned this honeymoon for us,” I lie.
“Huh,” he snorts. “How long will you be there?”
“Don’t know. It’s fun here. Nice hotel, very posh. I’ll let you know when we’ll be back, later?” I say, pouring oil on the fire. “Still got lots of stuff on our itinerary.”
“Well then, apologies for disturbing you,” he growls.
“No problem. Okay, going to take a bath now. Bathtub’s full! Bye, Hans,” I say, and click the line off right away.
I laugh on my way back to the room. A high, hooting laughter, like a vampire.
“Who was that?” Inu asks, drying his hair. He’s only in shorts. Ugh, why isn’t he dressed? He doesn’t have a six-pack, unlike Hans. Why is he parading that sorry excuse for a body in front of me?
“Just a friend. Why so nosy?” I say, letting myself fall onto the bed. I play with my phone, put some songs on. Singing along, I post on Facebook, letting everybody know that I’m in Yogyakarta. (Nobody leaves any comments.)
When Inu sits on the bed with his laptop, I ask: “What’re you doing?”
“Work.”
“Don’t need to pretend to be busy, Mr Inu,” I say, laughing. Isn’t he an ojek driver? Or just some hired actor?
He snorts. “You okay?” he asks, when I snort back.
“I’m bored,” I say. This is so pathetic. We’re on holiday. Why are we stuck in a room, wasting time? What kind of losers would do that? (I mean, I would. I’d sleep all day. But still.)
He suggests going out, wandering around, taking in the Jogja sights. We’re close to a bar called Bintang. Lots of backpacking foreigners hang out there, apparently. And lots of hookers. I don’t know why Inu takes me to this place. As soon as we get there he orders a round of beers, and starts guzzling non-stop. How shocking! I thought he was pious, what with his dawn prayers and all that.
After we get bored (to be honest, I wasn’t bored—it was pretty happening, and there was a lot of interesting people to watch), Inu says we should leave. I suspect he doesn’t like the way all those foreign boys look at me. We walk back to the lodging house. I complain that my legs hurt. Irritatingly, he doesn’t offer to carry me. (Only a crazy person would offer to carry me, really.) Back in the room, Inu asks whether I want a massage. I really do. I’m afraid it is a ruse, an excuse for him to touch me. But then he says: “After I do you, you do me.”
So I agree. Not so serious and it seems fair game. This won’t become some kind of erotic massage. We are just housemates, doing each other favours. Inu kneads my calves for ten minutes and then I do his in return. As I squeeze his hairy calf he yelps in pain—I pull out some hair by accident. He does my feet for ten minutes more. I start falling asleep. Haha! Look at his face, when he thinks I’ve swindled him out of our deal. “Dirty cheat,” he says.
“Hey, I didn’t ask for a second session, Mr Inu,” I retort. “You were the one who started it again. I didn’t even ask. So it’s your own fault.” Then I roll over. I remember to roll back to put the pillow-wall between us. “Anyway, I’m going to sleep. Ah, so relaxed after my massage.”
“Hish,” he hisses.
“Mr Inu!” I say. “Don’t go stealing my style!”
It doesn’t take ten minutes before I hear him snore softly. Inu is fast asleep, because he’s a little drunk maybe. I’ve grown used to the sound of that snoring. But I start to hear something else. I feel uncomfortable. There it is: something in the next room. At first it is a barely perceptible knocking, but after a while… Is that a voice? It is like a voice. Somebody’s voice. Something’s. And I try to make like everything is normal, like there is nothing to fear. Everything’s fine. Inu is sleeping next to me. But then I hear that voice, louder, clearer. Now it sounds like crying. Like a woman sobbing. That makes me shake.
I grab my phone and type out a text to Hans.
Help, I’m scared! This hotel is haunted!
I hope for a reply, for something reassuring. I wait quite a while. Nothing. Oh, great, he must be busy taking care of that pregnant wife of his. Damn it! What was I thinking! Hoping for attention from somebody else’s husband—even if he’s still my lover. I start to sweat. I look at Inu. He is still fast asleep. All of a sudden he turns around. Now he has his back to me. Idiot! I hate it when people do
that to me. What if Inu turns around again and it isn’t him, but some demonic, tumorous monster? Like one of those Suzzanna horror films. I decide to remove my pillow-wall so I can see Inu’s back a little better. But the voices grow even louder, and in my mind I begin to curse this cheap, terrible lodging house, so full of ghosts! I pinch Inu. I pinch his middle several times, until he spasms, tickled, and finally wakes up.
“What?” he grumbles, huskily, turning around. Thankfully his face is still the same face, it hasn’t sprouted maggots
or anything.
“Scared,” I say, like a little girl.
“Scared of what?”
“There’s somebody screaming in the room next door,” I
tell him.
“Right, okay, come on then,” he replies, opening his arms up, so I can slide into them. So he can hold me.
I glare at him angrily. “Ceh, no way,” I hiss, the little-girl voice forgotten. “Don’t you dare try to take advantage!”
“Fine. Up to you,” he mumbles, shutting his eyes, rolling over again.
So I plead at him: “Don’t turn away.”
“Huh? Then what?” He is annoyed.
“Just sleep. But sleep facing me.”
“Argh. You’re full of nonsense!” he protests. But he does as I say.
On my side, I turn to him. My face is right in front of his face. This is the first time I’ve seen him so up close, and for so long. I have never really looked at him before. Whenever he looks at me, I usually turn my nose up at him. But this time? I’ve an opportunity to get a good look. No shame in it; he’s asleep.
His face is pretty oily, a little sweaty, maybe because of the drinking earlier. Nose average: not too big, not too small. Not too flat, though not sharp. Dark lips. Maybe he used to be a smoker. But now he’s quit? I’ve never seen him smoke. And his eyebrows have a good, firm shape. I hadn’t noticed that. His looks are very ordinary. Skin a little pockmarked. The way most guys look. His lashes are quite curled up. Scraggly hairs on the lip and chin from a lack of shaving. Almost handsome, but I wouldn’t call him that. But not completely ugly. Boys like Inu, they’ll grow on you if you look long enough. They look sort of sweet. Not a boring face, at least. And he doesn’t look as old as I think he is.
Then I hear scratching on the wall between the rooms. That’s the moment I decide to huddle up to Inu. Not quite a hug; I turn so that my butt is to him, then I wiggle a little so I’m touching him. Ass to chest, maybe. I can almost feel his breath on my hair. The heat of another living human being makes me feel comfortable again. At last I can forget about the creature next door. And so I fall asleep. Just imagining the boy beside me was Hans.
*
Waking up the next day I find Inu’s arm around my waist. I toss it off quickly. Damn him. The cheek of him. Always taking advantage! I twist around waiting to slap him. But he seems asleep, still. Oh, whatever, I don’t care. Call me charitable. Inu yawns and stretches as soon as I sit up. His eyes blinking, blinking.
“Ugh, I’ve missed dawn prayers,” he says, shuffling to
the bathroom.
“Got to shower to cleanse myself,” he calls from inside.
Ceh! What does he mean by that? I hear him singing from inside the shower. An English pop song, but he gets the lyrics all wrong.
“Woi, shut up!” I shout.
But he doesn’t stop. He gets louder. Argh! He ends up in a towel in the middle of the room. He gets dressed. I’m bored telling you about it; also it’s a pain to look at him half-naked. A serviceable body. Standard physique, average height. Some muscle, and a little plump. Not overweight, but definitely, Hans is way sexier. Uh, I’m missing Hans. What’s he doing right now, I wonder. Selling top-up cards, perhaps. Maybe his top-up counter has gone bust already, knowing him. Probably run out of money, trying to pay off all kinds of debt.
“Let’s go?” Inu asks. I’ve already showered. Don’t think I don’t already have my face on.
Another day of walking. We visit Beringharjo market. I force Inu to follow me in. All sorts of batik fabrics and outfits and Yogyakarta delicacies. I buy a huge bag of spicy lanting—a sweet potato snack shaped into little rings. I have the bag the rest of the way, munching from it like a starving child. So what? I’m doing it on purpose. Let Inu hate me. Krauk krauk krauk.
“Where to, next?” I ask him, mid-chew, lanting falling from my mouth.
Inu is busy snapping photographs. “Where do you want to go?” he asks.
I tell him: “Wherever. You decide. You’re the man.”
“Not everything has to be decided by the man,” he says. “That’s called chauvinism.”
“Hish. Here I am, keeping quiet, and you don’t like it? You should be thankful for a wife like me, Mr Inu! So obedient to her husband, willing to follow him where he wants to go, without protesting, you should be happy.” I stick my hand back into my packet of lanting. Krauk krauk krauk. “Hish.” More bits of sweet potato fall out.
“Really? I seem to have married a naga,” he says, stopping a taxi.
Asshole. Calling me a serpent.
In the taxi I don’t ask him where we’re heading. I said I’d follow him, didn’t I? So I keep quiet, and keep munching on my spicy lanting. Krauk krauk krauk. (The taxi driver sneaks glances at me through the rear-view mirror.) It’s a long way, and the meter tells me we’ll be paying over 100,000 rupiah. Where are we going? At last we arrive in some kind of jungle area. It has begun to drizzle. The taxi stops in front of an enormous tree, next to a gate. The gate is shut.
“What kind of place is this?” I ask, chewing. It is really good, this lanting. If you ever visit Yogyakarta you should definitely get some!
“Ullen Sentalu. It’s a museum,” Inu says, handing the driver a wad of cash. A museum? Oh I like that! It’s honeymoon-worthy.
The person at the ticketing counter tells us: “You will go with this group.” It’s a group of ten: a few elderly couples, some teenagers.
I don’t understand. Why do we have to go into a museum in groups? But not long afterwards a professional, erudite-looking woman appears. Our guide. The gate opens, and I’m silent as we are led in—it is like a stone labyrinth in the middle of the forest. Lush, cool, mystical. And at the end of it? An open space, filled with Javanese artefacts on display: paintings, sculptures and so on. The guide begins: “Welcome to Ullen Sentalu Museum.”
She talks and talks. Ullen Sentalu is a museum dedicated to the Majapahit Empire and its culture. I don’t remember much. I only go: Ooh, ooh. By accident I knock over a painting of a Majapahit princess. Our guide glares at me. Done with this exhibit, we head on to the next area. These corridors are beautiful and interesting, too. So cool. I love labyrinths!
Our guide tells us about all kinds of things: about kings and kingdoms; of symbols and their meanings; about the patterns in batik. Inu nods and seems engrossed by her explanations. I just wander, open-mouthed, staring at the building. At the end of every section, the young people in the group—they seem like students—ask complicated, obscure questions. Questions about history. Ancient governments. Finished with this area (which all had to do with princes and princesses and romances and the Queen of the Sea, Nyi Roro Kidul, ritual dances and whatnot), proceeding through the museum’s labyrinth to the next exhibit, I am still amazed that a large complex like this can exist in the middle of the jungle. Who spent their money building such a large, dream-like place, so well-hidden, so magical? (You need to check it out. Google it!)
The guide talks as she leads us. “A prince has to be skilled in the arts of dancing, rhetoric, his instructors would’ve come from all over the world, this princess was known as a great beauty, perhaps the greatest, and she refused marriage with anybody but the prince of her choice, look at this painting, look at how unhappy she looks, she was forced into marriage, this princess held high office in government, in her time. She was known to be very fashionable, Majapahit once was…”
It is all fascinating, this Javanese history.
Apparently princes had to be good dancers, and princesses were already wearing lingerie.
We were strictly prohibited from using any of our electronic devices. Inu is frustrated; I think he was really looking forward to shooting the exhibits. There is so much to photograph. But he had to surrender his camera at the gate; it’s in a locker with our bags. He’s not the only one frustrated. I’m annoyed my bag of lanting wasn’t allowed in.
The rooms in the museum are cold from the air-conditioning. In the final space we are shown a collection of letters, royal communications sent to a princess, depressed because she was sent away, married against her will. The letters were sent to amuse her. Some of them were written in Dutch. Inu and I peer at one of the letters (beautifully framed) and we begin to read:
“A hippopotamus brushes his teeth with sand from a riverbank. May your heart be as pure as his teeth.”
It is such an image, I laugh out loud—shattering the silence in that reverent space. Inu’s face is red; he is trying to hold back. We look at each other and point at it and read it again and try not to break into giggles. The rest of the ten-person group stares at us. I don’t care. I keep laughing. In the end the guide comes up to us and asks what’s so funny. She looks angry. She has probably been wanting to chew me out ever since I knocked over her precious painting. But I point to the letter, and she smiles, then leaves us alone. Maybe she doesn’t blame us for laughing. It’s such a silly letter. You can just imagine it: a princess, writing to another princess. She’s comparing hearts to hippo’s teeth. What must be going through her head? Thank goodness I’m no princess, otherwise I’d be cursed, laughing at my own ancestors. May my heart be as pure as a hippo’s teeth. Amin. Haha.
The museum tour ends after half an hour, and we return to the outside world. I don’t understand why Inu brought me here. Did he want to show me the lives of these royals, show me that these princesses had arranged marriages, too? Maybe he was making a point, that arranged marriages were special things, practised by kings and princesses? I don’t know. But I managed to pass the day without thinking about Hans at all. He hasn’t sent me any texts, called me, whatever. And I don’t like sending him messages, or calling him. I keep thinking about that silly poem in the museum, and I laugh. And Inu smiles at me laughing. I think I’m starting to enjoy my honeymoon.
