The General’s Daughter
Smashwords edition
Text by
Micky Vann
ISBN 978-974-8460-70-3
eISBN 978-616-7270-53-1
Published by www.bangkokbooks.com
E-mail: info@bangkokbooks.com
Text Copyright© Micky Vann
Cover page Copyright© Bangkok Book House
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The General’s Daughter
Plus the sequels
Heading North
&
Love Lost, Love Found
The New Travel-Romance Trilogy by
Micky Vann
“The test of a first-rate intelligence is to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function well.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald
“The rate at which a person can mature is directly proportional to the embarrassment one can tolerate.”
Douglas Englebart
A truth passes through three stages. First it is ridiculed. Second, it is violently opposed. Third, it is accepted as being self-evident.
Arthur Schopenhauer
Prologue
Born in ‘remote’ Venezuela, Rodney had ― from his early teens onward ― developed a gusto for foreign shores as his father, a career diplomat, was being posted to different missions around the world. His university years coincided with his dad’s appointment in Australia, meaning that he had the opportunity to study at one of the world’s better-known universities.
At uni, he made friends with a filmmaker, who, enthused by his wife from Sulawesi, entertained the idea of making documentaries in Indonesia, where her uncle was the personal Chief of Protocol of President Suharto.
Near the end of his studies, Rodney and his friends had started to get serious about giving it a go. Although the doco project never got off the ground ― the prerequisite tea money ‘contribution’ amounted to more than 40,000 US dollars, despite the so-called excellent connection ―, Rodney, who was a keen photographer, rather than a filmmaker, had seen enough of Indonesia to know that there were sufficient job opportunities in order to make sticking around pay off, albeit in another field ― teaching specialised ESL and TOEFL English. Rodney’s arrival in the archipelago coincided with the much heralded ― anticipated ― ascent of The Asian Century, the harbingers of which could already be felt. The unexpectedly fast growing economies ― of Southeast Asia in particular ― found themselves overwhelmed by their own ‘boom’ as they were scrambling to fill a whole array of vacancies, such as in engineering, advanced telecommunications, state-of-the-art computer technology and qualified English-language instructors, to name a few.
At the same time, the West was going through an economic slowdown, resulting in massive lay-offs, asset stripping, restructuring and moving plants to less expensive environments ― such as in Asia. It meant that if you had just graduated, you’d be well advised to “Go East young men and women!” instead of joining the long queues of serial job applicants.
Pre-print Reviews of ‘The General’s Daughter’ and sequels.
Dialogue blunt and direct
Having spent the past 20 years in the film industry, I have read my fair share of film scripts as well as novels. Micky Vann’s roller-coaster trilogy The General’s Daughter held my attention immediately. I particularly enjoyed and appreciated this newcomer’s style of directness and bluntness of the dialogue. I would also add that anyone who has traveled or plans a trip to the area, will immediately feel the overall quality of living amongst the natives. No matter how much a person travels or feels they have an understanding of other cultures, customs and beliefs, we are reminded in The General’s Daughter that our minds certainly don’t work or think in the same manner. The story may be a novel, but it translates into my mind as a movie script.
Craig Prater.
Craig Prater Productions, Inc.
Palm Springs, California, USA
Through the loupe of cool consideration
As a person with a perpetual interest in South-east Asia (particularly Thailand), I greatly enjoyed the fascinating narrative of The General’s Daughter.
The ‘insight-info’ that numerous encounters – such as experienced by the protagonist – bring to the fore, has helped deepen my overall understanding.
For instance, the incorporation of the mysterious – held under the loupe of ‘cool’ consideration – has reconfirmed my observations that, in these parts, spirits and intuition play a far more tangible and prominent role than many non-Asians would believe.
Uwe Solinger.
Former Advisor to the Secretariat of the House of Representatives, Bangkok, Thailand (1997- 2002)
One revelation after the other
Right from the opening line of The General’s Daughter I was intrigued by the narrative, including as a treasure of insightful information of the real and surreal that apparently run parallel (and often get mixed) in places like Indonesia and Thailand... about which I never had the foggiest idea existed! I could not and would not stop reading, until I had absorbed what I experienced as one revelation after the other.
It may be fiction but definitely not fictitious… much so because of the trilogy’s ongoing correlation to what transpired during the 1980s and 1990s on the world stage.
Rudi Redelaar.
Hotelier.
Amsterdam, The Netherlands.
A ‘thriller’ played out on the battlefield of the sexes
Micky Vann’s Romance-Travel novel The General’s Daughter strikes me not only as refreshingly original in style of writing but also in the balanced way it exposes the deep-seated cultural chasms between Westerners and Asians, played out on the battlefield of the sexes - not just between (heterosexual) men and women, including as it does interaction with ‘the third sex’.
Reads in many ways like a thriller (for its numerous, unexpected twists), enhanced by a witty – sometimes dry – sense of humour. Furthermore, not unlike the best of fiction, The General’s Daughter feels to me far more intimate than non-fiction.
Professor Roberto Lemm.
Hispanic historian, author.
Madrid, Spain.
Dedication
Thanks to:
All Five+ Billion of you great folks out there! Why else would I almost have written myself off writing in the crazed daze caused by continuously overdosing on black espresso coffee, whiskey and nasty smokes for four months at a thousand words per day with two fingers in stead of five per hand. I did use my thumbs, but only to stop them from going numb’, like my feet and everything else my body once was allowed to throw around for exercise!
Now, if I were the Picasso of literature, you’d be forgiven for thanking me instead of my thanking you. Whatever the case, please don’t, because I’d die from embarrassment, unless you do so for my promising you that next time, I’ll write something more useful, such as on tissue paper.
The truth is that if it were not thanks to all of you, say only Three Billion, I would have felt far too guilty from the fact that The General’s Daughter and Sequels, caused the felling of at least two or three beautiful big trees ― since I refused to post it on the Internet ― it’s de rigueur these days, I suppose you know. So why didn’t I?
Because I would not be able to show-off with it, that’s why. You can blame it on Jake, who one day, a couple of years ago, proudly and beaming with happiness held up the three books he had written, with the words, “See this? I like writing books because you can hold them in your hands, take ‘m anywhere, never get bored in a long queue, even learn something. And they are interactive, unlike the TV sit-coms.”
That’s why many of you out there call books friends, right? Furthermore, books give their creators the wonderful illusion that it makes them immortal, heaven forbid. Do I think that too? Let me put it this way: My first book cut at least ten years off my life (my so-called friends reckon I have leprosy combined with consumption), while just before the dead-line I had to use the (typically) wheeled office chair located at my desk, to get to the other side of this dump (a really nice room before I started on my book project) because my legs had gone on strike for all the obvious and politically correct reasons.
Now that I am spilling the beans, I might as well admit that, to me, books are like (theatre) plays in that they give the reader suspense-of-disbelief accounts of the experiences of others, which you can apply to your own. In other words, if you wanted to become a window cleaner and you read how awfully dangerous it was and how the protagonist fell to the pavement from the 77th floor on his first day on the job, you’d probably wise up and join the army instead.
But seriously… without, say, telephone books, you wouldn’t be able to let your fingers do the shopping or know how to make real bombs at home without the appropriate instruction booklet.
Anyway, now that you have made it this far, and thus have shown your mettle, I’ll let you in on a carefully kept secret, namely that reading a book (especially real literature) is often referred or compared to as a war of attrition. Howz-that? I can hear you wonder. Look behind you, aren’t you the only one still reading? All the others have gone for their midday hamburgers… but guess what, they all bought a book.
Bert, who ran a bookshop in Phnom Penh of all places, once told me, “You don’t look half as daft with a book under your arm.” Getting the picture? Let Rob, a writer held in great esteem far and wide, give us his observation on this fascinating subject: “The fact that people buy books, doesn’t necessarily mean that they are actually going to read them. And even if they do, it does not prove that they have understood let alone absorbed it and incorporated into their ‘system’ … you know, like made it their own, knowing what to do with it, allow the new information to enrich or even change their mindset.”
Maybe this is merely water off a seal’s back to most of you guys out there, but to be frank, I was really distraught by Rob’s account, especially since I had no reason or excuse to doubt or ignore his words ― couldn’t, not after thirty years of his acquaintance.
Now I guess you want to know my political or marketing motive regarding the above dissertation. Well, it’s like this… I wish I had one, but unfortunately I don’t. If I indeed did have such motive, my parting shot would sound a heck of a lot more structured as well as purposeful, say, with a bit of help from ‘our’ PR department.
No such luck, sorry guys.
Hey! Would I beat around the bush vis-à-vis all five billion of you? No way, José.
I’m not even a member of Save the Trees any more, since they found out about my real (versus virtual) publishing plans.
So here it is: Thanks all of you for allowing me to render one more entire leaf of expensive real-tree paper of no further actual use… Thank you, José, for sticking around… and… since I am presently becoming a bit emotional from all the attention I have been getting as a writer, I would like to finish with a quote from Pablo Picasso himself, who having reached certain dazzling heights as the number One painter on the planet, told his audience that he had begged his Maker ― without a hint of intended blasphemy (by contrast, on his knees and with great humility),
“Oh God if only I never had to paint again!”
For Anna Maria
Part 1
Vocabulary, et al
AA: Alcoholics Anonymous.
Ancol: Jakarta’s own luxury seaside resort.
ASEAN: Association of South East Asian Nations.
Bagus: Good, OK.
Bahasa (short for Bahasa Indonesia): The Indonesian language (very similar to Malayu).
Bintang: Star (Heineken in this case).
Black May: Uprising against the government of Suchinda Krapayon (Bangkok 1992).
Buleh: Foreigner (Westerner).
Coucher au poile: Going to bed naked.
Dangdoot: Pronounce ‘doot’ short, almost like ‘dut’. Syrupy romantic music .
Dorm Perrempuan: Dormitory for working girls.
Exchange rate : 2,000 rupiah = US$1.
Feuilles-de-rose: Rose petals. In Kamasutra parlance the phrase itself sufficiently describes what it feels like getting kissed from top to toe.
Gambing: Goat
Gang: Alleyway, narrow street.
Grobak: Vendor’s cart in local argot.
Gudang Garam (literally salt warehouse): Renown Indonesian brand of cigarettes. Available in packets of 12 or 16.
Jakarta Pusat: Central Jakarta.
Hysteron proteron: Sentence or phrase in which the logical order is reversed.
Jalan: Road, street.
Kampong: Village, or a village-like neighbourhood of a city.
Kijang: Deer. First introduced in 1977, the robust Toyota Kijang became Indonesia’s most popular multi-purpose family minibus.
Kretek: Cigarettes enriched with cloves that upon ignition tend to noisily spew sparks as in krretek!
Kris, Keres: Javanese dagger. Upon its deadly blade rest a thousand mystic tales.
Losmen: Guesthouse.
Merdeka: Freedom, independence.
Misopenist: Men-hater (bad try, as no satisfactory translation from Ancient Greek could be found, despite extensive reading ― see also Virago).
Misogynist: Woman-hater (no trying required; the perfect match was found in seconds). No further comments.
Nasi goreng: Fried rice.
PA system: Public Address system (here) using loud speakers.
Pancasila: Indonesia’s philosophical foundation, closely linked to its political gestalt.
Panti pijat: Massage parlour
Partir est mourir un peu: To depart is to die a little.
Penbantu: Attendant.
Perewet: Empty talker, gossip.
Pisang: Banana.
PMT: Pre-menstrual tension.
Rodrigo: Spanish, Christian name of central character.
Rodney: English version (first nickname)
Rod: Short version (second nickname)
Selatan: South
Salembah Raya: Central Jakarta, 10 minutes from Kebon Sirih
Sarong: Wrap-around cotton cloth, typically batik.
Sombong: Proud, aloof, impolite.
Théh botol: Tea in a bottle, usually chilled.
Tukang: Tradesman, vendor, operator.
Tanamur: Acronym derived from Tanah Abang Timur. Its hormonal ambience earned it the title, ‘Queen of Jakarta’s night life’.
Virago: Xantippe. The prototype of hard-line feminist, anti-men crusaders circa 2,000.
Warung: Shop, store.
The General’s Daughter
That corner
As soon as it got dark, the steamy labyrinth of the kampong exacted sharp recall of its daylight features, lest it take you until the morrow to find your way out. However, that was a bagatelle compared to the more serious nighttime hazard caused by the kampong’s mostly open sewerage system. Its softly glimmering black surface resembled newly laid asphalt to the untrained eye, turning it into a vicious trap wherever the three-foot-deep channels were bereft of concrete slabs. Getting lost was, of course, linked to stepping on the wrong pavement, since the longer you wandered around the more likely it became to fall victim to hazard number two as well.
Nobody knew whether the missing covers ever existed or that their gaping absence had been caused by thievery (spontaneous or organised).
Over the years, the black ooze had claimed numerous victims (fortunately there had not been one fatality so far), most of them while under the weather at the time. Naturally, their misfortune was an ongoing source of gossip and dirty (smelly) jokes. Furthermore, the black serpent (as the sewage system was known in infant parlance) presented an ongoing worry for the kampong’s mothers, as they knew only too well that it was capable of swallowing any child of toddler age.
However unsettling such pestilent baptism would be regardless of religion, age or inebriation, it shrivelled in significance vis-à-vis a less obvious, though more lethal danger that lurked in the dimly lit alleyways…
The kampong had been Rodney’s residential neighbourhood for several years. One of the things he did not like about it was the awful smell from the primitive sewage system. However, it provided an advantage in that his rather sensitive nose kept him from getting near its source, let alone take an unplanned bath in it.
To be sure, he had a mental map of the area so as to avoid that smell on his way home. Especially after dinner in a restaurant, it came in handy to have that map in his head. Ergo, the aftertaste wasn’t ruined by aforesaid smell, even if it meant having to make a bit of a detour.
Besides, he preferred a reasonable level of sobriety at all times. That did not mean that he was a teetotaller, rather it was a leftover of his past, dating back to his late teens, when he usually was the driver, often of someone else’s car, on party night.
He would have one pint of beer or one cocktail on arrival at the party and tomato juice for the rest of the evening. But once in the party mood he raged just as much as his friends. However, since the tomato juice looked the same as the typically potent cocktail Bloody Mary, people who did not know him often took it that he was ‘as drunk as a skunk’ (the more so as the night wore on).
Some of the guests and sometimes the hosts would express concern regarding his friends’ safety when Rod readied himself to drive them home. However, the only indication that he had been ‘drinking’ was that he smelled of tomato juice, reinforced by the mixed-in garlic salt.
The English teachers Rodney knew in Jakarta were either alcoholics or teetotallers, exceptions notwithstanding. The archetypal teetotaller was a person with a history of alcoholism, who had joined Alcoholics Anonymous before it was too late. One of the principles of AA membership (it had branches in many countries) was that one was committed to stay dry ever after. It was accepted doctrine that the smallest amount of alcohol ingested would in one instant annihilate all efforts, so far, to kick the habit. At the beginning of every AA meeting each participant would (in turn) stand up, solemnly declaring, “My name is John (Dick or Harriet) and I am an alcoholic.”
It was thus that the appropriate kind of humility was inculcated, understood by AA’s founding fathers to foster a certain willingness on behalf of AA members to listen to their mentors.
Many alcoholics saw themselves (arguably for valid reasons, at least in certain cases) as far too intelligent for their peers. To them the most effective remedy was the consumption of alcohol in copious amounts. It soothed feelings of frustration as well as any lingering pain that life’s tribulations seemed to deal out to them in disproportionate quantities. Rod (he adapted his name from Rodrigo to Rodney or Rod, to suit both location and situation to facilitate it being easily understood and remembered) was a bit of a rarity in that he did not allow himself to come to any quick conclusion in a hurry on whatever subject or issue that seemed worth pursuing. If that was not the case, he nevertheless refused to copy popular opinion.
“That’s for the sheep amongst us, I don’t need it,” he’d respond to questions about matters he didn’t feel he knew enough about. By contrast, he often went out of his way to look under the surface of appearances with the aim to come to an understanding of what the essence of whatever might actually be.
It was thus that he had asked an AA member to take him along to their next meeting, so he could see for himself what went on as well as doing his usual ‘personal research’ as he explained as his motive for nosing around.
That meeting had been in Bangkok, where a branch of the Baptist Church provided a venue for alcoholics to meet up. For Rodney, the most revealing part of that visit was that alcoholism apparently ran in families, a facet that put an entirely new angle on it. Instead of being stigmatised and written off as anti-social and being prone to violence, the majority of alcoholics had to be seen as the victim of a genetically passed-on affliction (if not a serious disease) which begged tolerance and help (though preferably not in a patronising manner) rather than instantaneous, negative judgement.
The session’s orderly proceedings reflected a high level of self-effacing honesty and sincerity all-round, another aspect that contributed significantly to his deepened understanding. Armed with his newly acquired knowledge, he anticipated that he’d fare better whenever he’d find himself in the midst of raunchy hard-drinking colleagues. Not that he’d suggest everyone present to join AA, as he did not see himself as a proselytiser.
Among the hordes of before-and-after-AA teachers Rodney was one of few exceptions. Not that this occurred to him just then. He had long forgotten all about those halcyon no-drink driving days. It finally hit him (right here in Jakarta) just after seeing unsteady partygoers (locals) literally fall into their cars and speed off. Contemplating the awesome risks involved and wondering why people preferred hangovers over learning to cope with something resembling reality, triggered off his recall. It had hitherto never occurred to him that his aversion to inebriation (embedded somewhere in his subconscious) was actually still with him. Associated issues such as why people wrote themselves off through their addiction to alcohol had been submerged alongside.
That suddenly took gestalt again when a week after his first recall (having a few after work) a director of his school fell (chair and all) backwards hitting the back of his head so hard on the tile floor that Rodney thought the man had cracked his skull. What apparently had softened the blow, was that the man had become unconscious before he keeled over. That experience took Rodney back to what had happened to his party night friends (of the distant past) when he had been skiing across the Swiss border instead of being the driver. His temporary replacement had looked much deeper in his glass than appropriate, so it was no wonder that he crashed the vehicle (a Volkswagen minibus). It was a total write-off, but none of the eight or nine passengers required hospitalisation, apparently because everybody had been so intoxicated that they had sunk into a state of slumber shortly after they had hit the road. Consequently, they had been profoundly relaxed when the minibus ran off it. Had they been sitting up and realised what was about to happen, the crash would have yielded several dead, since rigid bodies were far more breakable.
It seemed thus suitable advice to get intoxicated to the max, if you were driven home by someone who had been drinking, too.
That’s the kind of fun I missed out on!
Not logically… As a passenger, Rod would have been the only fatality!
Actually, the main difference between him and his mates was that he didn’t need alcohol to enjoy a party. And, now like then, he took it in his stride when people thought he was as much under the weather as everybody else.
Nevertheless, one of the ‘dirty’ jokes in circulation referred to Rodney, though not by name. It was a practical lesson in how folklore evolved and why the truth often had to be altered so as to draw the listener’s attention to its undercurrent meaning.
Folklore tended to take to gossip more or less like a duck to water. In that context stood (in the daily exchanges amongst housewives, for instance) the religious-cum-social disapproval of husbands wasting household money on alcohol, then come home in a state of inflammable stupor. The more juicy the latest joke on how a drunkard had got hurt as ‘he stepped on the new asphalt’, the better.
What made being mistaken for yet another alcoholic more or less inevitable was the fact that quite often Rodney did have a few drinks, though not three large bottles, but three small glasses. As you would expect, this was a subtlety missed by most and it was because of this that he was not keen on (equally) sharing the bill having been part of a group of hard drinkers.
Meanwhile, the reason for Rod’s unwitting participation in the birth of at least one local joke, was that he had once been seen wading through the black murk. That was when the wet season’s floods had been deeper than usual.
Excess storm-water had rapidly filled the sewer channels to overflowing (thus mixing with excrements) eventually flooding the entire kampong. Between Rodney’s place and the nearest main street was a dip (he had never noticed it before) that had suddenly changed into a three to five-foot-deep pond.
According to the locals the pungent gunk was so potent that the smallest lesion it came in contact with, usually turned into a festering abscess in a matter of minutes. That evening Rodney had planned to eat at a restaurant outside the kampong, but when he had suddenly found himself waist-deep in this barely watered down waste, he had lost his appetite, heading back as fast as he could. There was no point in going anywhere, let alone a decent eatery, smelling like a week-old rat carcass.
As soon as he got home, Rod jumped under the shower, scrubbing himself until-sore with the industrial-strength soap he used. He had a premonition-like fear that the disease-ridden ooze had already penetrated his skin. He had heard several accounts of both adults and children having ended up in hospital after a fall in the sewer, despite the fact that they had not had any visible abrasions.
A week or so later the story of his involuntary dip had already been adapted to the kampong’s collection of lore. Witness a joke being enjoyed by a table of English teachers including Rodney, at Bagus Café.
“This guy stepped into the sewer on his way to a nice restaurant where he’d meet up with his Indonesian girlfriend. He was too far-gone to smell the gunk he had taken a bath in. So when he joined his fiancée-to-be, he gave her the bunch of flowers he had bought for the occasion. Half a gallon of ooze fell on her new dress as a result.
By then the waiters, who had noticed the nasty odour the guy had brought with him, had put on their rubber gloves and a minute later he was thrown out with his not-to-be-fiancée yelling abuse at the poor devil so hard that a passing police patrol car stopped to see what was going on. Guess what! The guy spent the night, in the lock-up, cuddling not a bare mistress but a bare mattress. Ha, ha, ha!”
Rodney had been tempted to correct the jokers, but on second thought let it pass, swayed by the argument that there was an educational quality to the story and thus qualified to be added to the kampong’s lore.
That same wet season was wet all right… The kampong’s floods were almost continuous. Never mind the wet feet experienced by all comers and the increasingly frequent problems, such as kids getting sick with sores, a far more worrisome result was the expressed desire of a group of developers to bring their demolition hammers in, which of course would mean that the entire kampong be vacated.
However, the resistance from the residents, who were in no mood to move, proved too strong. Not because of the intensity of their anger or connections high up, but rather because among its population were several ‘untouchables’(members of remote tribes known for their powerful black magic), not even ABRI (the Indonesian army) dared take on, let alone a bunch of greedy speculators.
A few hours after the first bulldozer had been parked in the vicinity (ready for the next day), its driver had suffered an almost fatal heart attack. Whether or not this was a result of black (or white) magic did not matter, since the kampong’s lore included several examples of how powerful the said magic could be. Thus, it was no accident that rumours put in circulation the next morning claiming that the area had been jinxed, had the desired effect. It caused the immediate removal of the bulldozer and, eventually, the indefinite postponement of the development venture.
What did not go away, however, were the jinxing ghosts. The episode soon took up a duly prominent place in the kampong’s folklore. It recounted how the kampong’s spirits (of the ancestors of its inhabitants) had been called in by its untouchable shamans. The latter humbly passed all credit for scaring away the developers to the aforementioned spirits.
Interestingly, the one person who claimed it was his spell that had contributed to the developers’ retreat most, happened to be from Madura. That was intriguing enough to be added to Rodney’s list of worthy research subjects. One of the bits of useful information he picked up from going places (mostly for work) and talking to people, was that just about every neighbourhood in Jakarta had at least one immigrant from that cork-dry island, just to the north of Surabaya. In each instance the central focus of a discussion, especially when its purpose was gossip about magic, touched on ‘the man from Madura’, usually known for his cunning and magic powers.
The phrase alone conjured up mixed feelings (jealousy, hatred, fear) and sometimes awe for his innate inkling for thievery, mysticism and immunity to harm, including bullets! Slugs would either miss their target or bounce off the-man-from-Madura’s thick, rubbery skin. The most amazing eyewitness reports seemed to always pertain to ancient Madurese sailors.
Upcountry Javanese might believe some of these stories, but the nascent urbanised middle-class watched enough fantasy television programs to satisfy their appetite for hocus-pocus. The ability to distinguish between likely claims and unlikely ones (such as mentioned here) was a fundamental element of the ancient Javanese adat culture, a point that attracted Rodney’s interest considerably.
Thus it was no wonder that the kampong’s lore ignored the man from Madura completely, emphasising the benevolent powers of the community’s forefathers. It was the kind of comforting story mothers liked to recount to their toddlers at bedtime. There was another aspect. This addition to the kampong’s lore represented a marked strengthening in its resolve; a boost to local morale. To Rodney (an implicitly unauthorised buleh until he could prove otherwise) it also showed that spirits could be friends. But very obviously (to the locals) it confirmed the existence of (ancestral) spirits and the possibility to raise these supernatural beings for helping out when needed. Moreover, the immediate past experiences had breathed new life into the notion that spirits were part and parcel of the kampong. As a matter of course, relevant parts would be used to bolster existing stories.
That came in handy whenever unexplained phenomena occurred or recurred, such as a certain ghostly appearance on the strike of two in the morning, winning the lottery twice in a row or clairvoyance that turned out uncannily close, if not dead-on.
There was a common thread between these phenomena and the theatrical notion of the suspense-of-disbelief, or even a more recent approach, such as reality drama, known as theatre without the need for illusion.
Somewhere between these two dramatic art forms (against the backdrop of the kampong as a living entity) lay what Rodney would eventually come to regard as ‘the corner of reality’. Beyond this corner awaited another kind of labyrinth; a puzzle of heart and soul that grew harder (to solve) and larger as more pieces were added, a mystery that became more intriguing as the clues became more (or less!) obvious. And since it concerned two human beings (strangers from start to finish) who desperately needed a friend, a lover or even a partner for life, beyond that corner developed a relationship in which alienation rather than the intimacy of body and soul played an increasingly important role (peripheral traumas adding vehemence) ironically the more so as the protagonist tried harder to counter it.
Rodney never saw it as another research subject, since he got personally involved far to soon to find the time and (or) resolve required. Nevertheless, he learned a lot more than he bargained for.
Not far in from the street that formed one border of the kampong was a corner connecting the outer circle with its central area, which featured several cafés, guesthouses and a few dwellings rented out to bulehs. It was on that corner that late one night Rodney happened upon a most unusual scene. Not just because of the appearance of a fairy tale princess who seemed to have transformed it into a theatre stage, complete with subtly soft background lighting, but also because of the enthralled audience; half a dozen lads, who looked quite ordinary and yet apparently not at all put out by the bizarre tableau.
The centre of their attention was dressed in a leopard outfit, the leotard panty hose topped by a wrap-around blouse, which hung elegantly around her shoulders. She stood tall and proud, silky-black hair cut several inches above the shoulder, her straight back underscoring a proud, compelling allure. Presently she was giving detailed cooking instructions to the grobak operator from whom she had ordered nasi goreng a couple of minutes ago.
Given the social and religious restraints of time, place and populace, the unfolding spectacle classified as a not-to-be-missed rarity of the highest order. Indeed, the audience perched in half-darkness on benches atop a closed section of the omnipresent sewage system, paid such fully focussed attention that it was palpable. Any with-it passer-by would have noticed at once. That Rodney was the first (and only) new patron added to the unusual atmosphere. Was this real or was he dreaming?
The corner’s topography was demarcated by Jalan Jaksa and Jalan Kebon Sirih Barat Dalam. If you consulted a concurrent calendar you’d have found a postmeridian hour in the early 1990s. However, the suspense-of-disbelief scene unfolding right there in front of him made Rod so spell-bound that he forgot what time and what day it was and even where he was. The mise-en-scène was so convincing (so he reflected afterwards) that it might as well have been in a real theatre.
He had been on his way from his losmen just down the street, to check whether there was still life at Bagus or Memories Café until he reached what he always would refer to as ‘the corner of reality’. Despite the theatrical overtone, the mood of the moment seemed oddly relaxed, even downright inviting. Perhaps they had been waiting for him? They must have…
“Hello!” he called out, making a bridge out of eye contact.
“Nice to meet you,” the fairy tale princess replied, letting the grobak’s tukang finish the nasi goreng without any further ado from her. Turning around and stepping closer she proceeded casually (in a manner that suggested she and Rod had been rehearsing!).
“What’s your name?”
“Rodrigo, call me Rodney if you prefer.”
He gestured her to come closer. Keeping the undefined but compelling spell undisturbed she complied without hesitation. For him it was the cue to put his arm around her waist, squeezing her into an unambiguous embrace that was despite its inherent rudeness not perceived as such.
“It’s a first. I mean, putting my arm around a total stranger just like this.”
What escaped scrutiny though were the circumstantial effects enhanced by staging and set design. There was a certain magic at work that left no room for doubt or any halfway station to reconsider. You either went along without hesitation or ran away before the spell could be cast.
“And what’s your name?”
“Titup! … I’ve been here for almost a month now, so how come I haven’t met you before?”
There was lament in her voice.
“I go past here almost every night.”
“It’s a pity, I’ll be going back to Solo next week.”
Shit, only one week to get to know her, what a sham!
Nevertheless, he managed to keep his gaze casual, though only just.
“Oh, you are from Solo!”
Solo, also known as Surakarta, in Central Java differed in every possible way from rat hole Jakarta. The locals were by and large likeable ― good people in the sense that they had a heart ― as well as a mind of their own. While its (nearby) sister city Yogyakarta had become a tourist trap, Solo had it all without the madding crowds, including being next door to Borobodur. Like Yogya (for short), Solo was a well-known centre of the arts, tertiary learning, new ideas and popular uprisings against dictatorial masters, nipping in the bud any presumption that republics might intrinsically be freer than kingdoms. Both cities were the capitals of sultanates (as autonomous as kingdoms).
One day, wandering around the centre of the city, Rodney found the residence of the sultan guarded by aged men whose only tool of deterrent was the keres (‘kris’), an ancient dagger worn across the back. The casualness of the scene at the gate was not to be mistaken for any inaptitude, though.
These seemingly pensioned-off geriatrics were, in fact, blue-blooded members of the sultan’s palatial guard. Their odd looking knives featured double-edged blades tempered in a wave-like fashion that would effortlessly leave a fatal four inch wide, nine inch deep stab wound where it had been applied to stop an intruder. It was thus arguably the deadliest dagger known to man, the winning argument being that a keres, once blooded, obtained an immensely superior magical status.
However, mightier than any weapon, real or imagined, visible or concealed was the supremely high esteem in which these sultanates were held in Java and beyond. Somewhat comparable to the unarmed London Bobby of the pre-influx-Caribbean past, the palace guard was a force nobody in their right mind would ever challenge. A significant derivative was the advanced standing the informed passer-by would gladly bestow on anyone hailing from such a kingdom. The non-informed on the other hand would soon discover that ignorance was not necessarily bliss, especially if they crossed paths with Ms Titup.
“Are you hungry?”
Before Rodney could answer she warned him off.
“It’s very spicy!”
Pretending not to have heard her warning, he took a mouthful, using thumb, index and middle finger of his right hand for a spoon, just like a local.
“Very tasty indeed… hmm, excellent.”
Her mouth seemed to have been borrowed from a famously beautiful French film actress, Rodney figured, searching his memory for a name. But her eyes ― he had never seen anything comparable, neither in his home country nor anywhere else. The closest he could conjure up was that her gaze resembled that of an entranced Balinese dancer. And so were her movements ― minus the trance, he surmised ― though quite possibly entrancing the observer or (at least) keeping the audience entertained if not downright fascinated.
The answer to the question how and why Ms Titup dominated the scene (probably any scene or situation) without even trying, lay (apart from her Surakartan roots) in the way one part of her person matched the next. The magical gaze of her eyes complemented the lithe movements of her body, the latter shaped to the exact prescription of a master sculptor. The owner’s extrovert self confidence was embossed in (among other spots) the readily vibrating corners of her mouth, indicating a well-honed sense of humour. This vital part of the picture-perfect fitted to a ‘T’ the words being uttered (usually in a casual manner). Whether forming mere phrases or complex sentences, these tended to be spiked (partly in tone, partly in the choice of words) with mild disdain. This was especially the case when directed to her entourage, of which there seemed to be ample supply ― as Rod was to discover before long.
Her command for fetching a fresh packet of kreteks was Ms Titup’s crumpling the empty (paper) envelope. Before it would hit the black ooze, the most alert silhouette had shot from the bench of which it had seemed a permanent fixture and was at her billed hand the next instant. The lucky lackey almost as quickly returned from his errand around the corner (the one ahead, not where Rodney had appeared from) with a new packet of Gudang Garam. The brand’s non-filtered, hand-rolled, slightly cone-shaped cigarettes were preferred by the connoisseur, who gladly paid the considerable premium ― provided that one was fortunate enough to find an outlet that stocked them and still had any left this late.
Half leaning against the handlebar of the nasi goreng grobak, taking her time to concentrate on the next draw of the kretek’s fragrant smog, Ms Titup parted with a selection of mindful morsels, introducing herself a little further. She told Rodney she’d been living here for almost a year. For him that was the year that had included Black May, after which he had sought solace by returning to his old stomping ground of which Jalan Jaksa was, once again, the epicentre ― probably (or at least possibly) with a vengeance (for better or for worse). On its periphery lay the sweaty firetrap Tanamur, the fatally treacherous Hotmen, desperado’s last resort the Tambora and the world’s largest ‘perrempuan-dorm’, Komplek 1, 2 and 3, Kalijodo, Tanjong Priok, North Jakarta.
But Jalan Jaksa was kampong territory, typically guarded by (unarmed) green-overall-clad police who observed the movements of all passers-by from their strategically placed sentry boxes. The kampong was notably not a place where soliciting (openly) was regarded bagus.
In this neighbourhood were numerous intersections where Rodney and Ms Titup had possibly crossed paths without meeting one another. Diminishing such a chance-meet was Ms Titup’s habitual commuting (in a slow motion rhythm of sorts) between her mother’s place in Solo (where the latter ran a batik wholesale business) and the usual hangouts in Jakarta.
She had been married and divorced (‘He left me’). Her four-year-old son was being looked-after by his grandmother, adding impetus to Ms Titup’s missing home, a feeling that would soon be overshadowed by the urge for ‘a visit to Jakarta to get away from the confines of Solo’. It was easy to imagine how this slow shuttle could occupy one’s entire life. It might even be a reasonably satisfying way to live.
Ms Titup’s most recent boyfriend had been a French journalist who had parted with his Agence France Presse lighter. Flashing it playfully around, she lit up the Gudang Garam she had gingerly released from the tightly folded paper packet before offering it to Rodney. She also showed him the elegant penlight that had come along with the lighter. Both were in pristine condition.
“He wanted to marry me. That was two years ago. Of course, I refused.”
Rodney’s raised eyebrows suggested that he wanted an explanation.
“I prefer alcohol to men.”
Rod presumed it was her way to seem more precious and thus harder to get. A prize requiring sacrifice, no doubt. Or perhaps it was Ms Titup introducing her alcoholism, while at the same time excusing the habit.
In the somewhat lost moment that followed this statement of abandon (Rod had no remedial one-liner at the ready) the scene broke up without any cue or ‘curtains!’ leaving an impression of anticlimax if one were unaware that the changing mood was pure illusion.
In fact, the episode at the nasi goreng grobak had simply been an intermezzo during an ongoing party at Memories from which Ms Titup, followed by a cackle of hopefuls (for errands and tips), had temporarily decamped to take advantage of the tukang’s very inexpensive meals and remarkably swift service. If you compared this with the average take-out joint in the West, where everything apart from the straws, was served pre-packed, pre-cooked and, seemingly, pre-chewed, this part of the globe would win thumbs up, since it not only had a much faster service but also included fresh ingredients that were cooked to order. Besides, by standing right next to the action, the tukang was compelled to desist from doing anything as unsavoury as spitting in the pan to check how hot it was. The latter was standard practice in many French kitchens, including 5-star hotels and Michelin-starred restaurants, as witnessed by Rodney himself, having worked (part-time) in such establishments when he was a student there.
A table strewn with at least twenty empty Bir Bintang bottles and one that would soon be added to the pile, was at the centre of a mixed group consisting of imported English teachers, local university graduates, freelance messengers, shoe shiners and the odd gancha dealer. Several members of the group glanced up at Ms Titup, who at once gestured that she would move to another table. She obviously had no plans to share the bill, even though that’s where she had been before going off for some fast food.
The other table had only one occupant; a bespectacled young ethnic Chinese-Indonesian gentleman known to Ms Titup by the name Danny, who did not expect to be introduced and thus did so himself. He had just arrived, and was still loosening his tie from the collar of his starched white shirt. Danny needed at least one person to accompany him, since he was too shy to be seen going out alone.
“I would like to go to Tanamur, what do you say?”
“It closes in less than an hour.”
The snappy in-the-know retort came from Ms Titup, who sat down across the table, with Rodney settling in the comfy rattan chair next to her.
It was not Danny’s day, so it seemed. He suggested he take Titup and friend to her favoured nightspot, ushering them into his car, intending to drop them off at the JJ Do-it, next door to Tanamur, known to close later. He was in for a disappointment, though.
“The Tambora? That’s too far for me. So sorry. I am presently working Saturday mornings too, so I only have time for a quick visit to Tanamur.”
Seconds later Ms Titip and Rodney found themselves on the back seat of a taxi that was cruising past just as they said good-bye to Danny, who had hastily settled his bill at Memories. He had hoped to persuade Ms Titup and co to join him, not caring too much at which of the two places, though he fancied one of the taxi girls of Tanamur. Danny was convinced that arriving in a group made him appear more like a real urban socialite. Because of the rush, Rod and Ms Titup never had a chance to order a drink and discuss their next move. On the other hand, Danny’s haste had helped galvanise Ms Titup’s plan to go to the Tambora (Hotel) at ‘Blok M’ as it suited what she had in mind.
The trip to Tambora seemed very short, despite Danny’s remark. Rodney would have been quite happy if the driver had mistakenly understood the destination to be Bandung or (at least) Bogor. At the first curve he took advantage of Ms Titup leaning onto his side by at once putting his arm firmly around her waist, this time without an excuse. At he next curve, going in the opposite direction, he applied more or less the same technique, ending up in the right position to savour the subtly seductive perfume at the back of her neck. He glanced at her face as she was looking at a distant point over the shoulder of the driver. Was she enjoying their ride to heaven as much as Rod was?
Am I falling in love?
He did not think anything else was possible. What else was that telltale rush of amorous adrenaline escalating into an overwhelming flood sensed from top to toe while the world outside was being reduced to a barely existing haze, the new pair in their very private capsule free-floating in space. Rodney’s infatuation was not unlike a potent drug and more than likely as addictive and hazardous as any other mind-altering opiate. Even if he had realised this at the time, he would have discarded it as well as all subsequent calls for caution, regardless of the consequences. After all, this was an adventure, wasn’t it?
Like most Friday nights, the disco room of the Tambora was (at about 1.30 am) a sea of writhing females who were working up a sweat in their quest to draw the attention of the surrounding strand of bulehs. As the night wore on, skirts tended to shrink, climbing higher and higher up their owner’s thighs, while buttons of blouses loosened by themselves somehow, revealing crumpling bras above uncovered navels. On their backside, a similar fate befell the top ends of their bottom cheeks’ creases. The dance-floor pick-up concept of Tembora’s disco softened considerably its real purpose ― a meat market, with the boys doing the shopping.
However, picking up bargains wasn’t as easy as the newcomer might have thought at first. In fact, more than a few bulehs were desperately looking for their best-lay-of-recent-times or the most appealing of tonight’s assortment of lovelies (not necessarily all beauty queens, considering that the attrition by selection had been reducing their number for several hours).
As dawn approached, new arrivals would swell well past intake capacity as a result of the gradual closing of all kinds of nightspots, the Tambora being one of very few exceptions (its status as a hotel helped a lot in this regard). As the intense crowding combined with an ever-thickening pall of (mostly kretek) cigarette smoke, visibility would soon be reduced to next-to-nothing. Thus it became increasingly difficult to make up your mind regarding whom to take home. And the longer you waited, the thinner the ranks of the most desirable damsels would become (as peak-hour passed into history).
This mechanism of depletion was countered rather successfully (to a large extent) by the mechanism of self-deception through inebriation. In an unusual departure from the norm, the bulehs standing near or leaning against the wall were indeed the very wallflowers only the utterly naïve and ignorant bystander would have taken them for! Being chosen was, despite appearances, a two-to-Tango gambit. Who dared might land a witch-like bitch and who dithered might go home alone or worse, with a burdensome dud. Interestingly, the pitfalls of the game applied to both the bulehs and the taxi-girls. This was not to claim that what unfolded there every night of the week was particularly democratic or agreeable in the eyes of most emancipated women of the West.
Bums rush came to a head with the first light of day. It was the cue for the cleaners to move in and for hope to turn into bedlam. It meant Rien-ne-va-plus! and ‘Shore up your desires until next sundown. See you then for more of the same’.
Luckily, there was always next Friday (not to forget Saturday), while the first bedding was not necessarily the first step to the altar. Thus, the routine (in appearance at least) was what Rodney saw unfolding on the dance floor right then. A process of almost subtle pairing off, with newly formed couples casually leaving and nodding ‘yes’ to the doorman who was ready to signal for a waiting taxi.
A few hours later, methodologies changed so as to beat the desperate consequences first daylight would herald. That too applied to both sexes. From both sides of the gender line approaches would turn direct, with girls halting close to their target asking, “You like me?” or bulehs joining them uninvited, whispering meaningfully in their ear or boldly leading them outside sans parole.
As you would expect, the perception and reception Ms Titup encountered with her new boyfriend were of a different kind. She was not here to compete, having arrived already attached. Though not unique, hers was a case apart. Besides, there was a certain manner in the way she moved that seemed to confirm Rod’s first impressions. What then one of the dancers got into her head to cut her pantyhose into ultra mini shorts, proceeding to shake her arse like an Egyptian night club performer on notice (à la improve or leave) right in front of him was to remain a mystery. Perhaps she was so far gone that she didn’t notice.
“More enraging than engaging,” one of her targets commented. Disapproval from nearby dancers needed not to be uttered, as their impression was expressed in other ways. Ms Titup, on the other hand, was amused. She had seen similar displays before. The Tambora was one of her playgrounds, obviously. Never desperate, she could keep the distance. Without getting involved she would listen to the laments from the dance floor’s competing starlets, discussing what to do if showing off more flesh were to become the norm and how that might affect their chances for landing a buleh, if they didn’t follow suit. Some of the girls had fat thighs or a telltale potbelly putting them at a disadvantage if such undress code got a hold.
The pair from Jalan Jaksa danced eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose, forehead-to-forehead. When she spotted a free table, Ms Titup took her companion there at once, sat down and ordered a beer. Before a large bottle of Bintang with two glasses arrived she playfully brought her lips closer to Rodney’s, mimicking their dance floor tête-à-tête for some introductory kissing. It was the first kiss of its kind of Rod’s life ― ‘kind’ appertaining to the immediate future rather than the past. Besides, it lasted an eternity. Not unlike in the taxi (but with more intensity), everything and everybody else became a blended haze. They were both surprised to see a bottle and full glasses on the table when they finally opened their eyes again.
The presumably-mutual passion penetrated the most remote nerve endings of Rodney’s system, alerting his brains to a new high, fine-tuning to enable free flow of communication in the new ‘reality,” which was at the same time a dream in which both of them virtually ‘osmosed’ into each other’s blood vessels, at least in Rodney’s mind. (He was pretty sure that the same applied to his dance partner.)
Having established the desired rapport, Ms Titup disentangled herself in order to dance-and-tell one of the working girls, chat with several bulehs and proceed to the lady’s. When she returned a few minutes later, she wasted no time to pick up where she had left (in the middle of a kissing session). Instead of Rod feeling at least a little puzzled or peeved (as many a fresh victim of the goddess of love would experience under similar circumstances) Ms Titup’s capriciousness conveyed a clear I am yours message. Actually, he had missed in its entirety that she had whispered in his ear that she had to go to the loo. It was because of another kind of inebriation, Rod worked out seconds after she left for another quick dash.
Never mind Ms Titup’s laying mines around her new acquisition on this battleground of the sexes. Rodney kept a low profile, since only a week or so ago the dancer, who tonight cut herself a new pair of micro shorts, had come up close and asked, “You like me?” He even tried his hand at casting a spell, hoping he would succeed at making himself unrecognisable to the said dancer as well as any other females he had previously had contact with while visiting the Tambora. Being in a state of trance might help to make his casting stick, he reckoned. Or was it Ms Titup’s extraordinary intuition that informed her whom to neutralise? How could he tell?
Just after four in the morning, the first noticeable thinning of the discotheque’s ranks became the cue for the pair’s departure.
“Let’s go!”
It was apparently not Ms Titup’s style to ask, suggest or wait for an answer.
As they were leaving, her pick-up got a last glimpse of the presently desperately lonely girl in micro shorts, who was still gyrating her hips like a tipsy nightclub artiste. She was not actually dancing as such, having decided to implement her contingency plan. The main tool for this was a dead microphone she borrowed from the sound system, proceeding with Phase One; mimicking a vocalist rendering a (supposedly) romantic song. Phase Two followed to counter the effect the melee around her had, in that you couldn’t see her unless you stood right next to her. Besides, what was so special about her act ?
However, as soon as her handling of the dead mike turned it into a weighty phallus, she got herself a bit of an audience which grew steadily as her act became more explicit. Some of the guys leaving with their temporary companion on their side, stopped for a moment or two, to see what the growing circle of still-single bulehs was about. Miss Micro-shorts enjoyed the tease, rather than trying to hook a buleh, since she looked much like a striptease dancer, whose tipsiness had brought on a kind of dreamy slumber.
Encouraged by her audience’s catcalls she soon found her top form. Ms Micro-shorts brought the mike within one inch of her wet-look, pink-lipstick-painted mouth and started blowing kisses on it, while stroking it with her free hand. To make sure the audience got her meaning, she began to plant wet kisses near the top of the improvised phallus, alternating this with elaborate upward licks, then taking the microphone in her mouth, while looking up to the imaginary recipient of what by then had become rather well understood.
If this were theatre, the suspense of disbelief was working, at least on those desperados who had consumed plenty alcohol. In the unlikely case that her display would not give at least one or two bulehs weak knees, she could always add a striptease show, though she decided to forego Phase Three, since she didn’t think her last go at it had been forgotten. It had been only two weeks ago that the doormen had thrown her out in her underwear. Rodney was curious to see what happened next, but when Ms Titup tugged on his sleeve, he did not protest. After all, he had been at the disco at the time of the climax-interrupts strip-tease show.
Were mixed feelings of uncertainty and anxiety an integral part of amorous excitement at the beginning? Why then ― with all this intuitive intimacy typical of newly paired first-timers, had the place Rodney and his date would lay their heads down, never cropped up in their conversation?
‘This is not a hooker, or a boyfriend-to-boyfriend player,’ Rodney asserted optimistically while the doorman was flagging down the front taxi of the queue. To him, Ms Titup was a lady who claimed that she did not need men other than as drinking partners or message boys ― depending on their social status (real or feigned, permanent or temporary). Even if that last bit merely represented her personality (on the defence) to the world, Rod was ready to go along with it. He did not know one person on the globe (including his parents) who would bare their inner soul each and every time such opportunity presented itself.