The General’s Daughter - by Micky Vann - Chapter 1

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.

Micky Vann

© Micky Vann. All rights reserved by the author.
ISBN: 978-974-8460-703
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