Doris Lynch
Yogyakarta: First Day
"Languages are afloat, like feathers."
—from the poem "Guest" by Lee Young-ju
I squiggle out of the low-hanging mosquito net that hangs over our bed—my husband doesn’t stir—float on a dress that covers shoulders, biceps, knees. Slip into clogs. As I open the street gate, a muezzin calls. Night guards roll up their bedding on the neighbors’ front patios. Push clove cigarettes into their mouths, hop on motorbikes and zoom away.
On a narrow street with shops, colors, sounds, and scents flood my senses. Bright plastic packages of pink-colored snacks, whose origin I cannot guess. Bolts of batik in oranges, browns, dark blues. Revs of motorcycles, guitars strumming, invitations from café owners in unfamiliar Bahasa Java for breakfast, coffee.
But it’s the scents that overwhelm me: hundreds of spices, fruits familiar and not. Nasi goreng prepared in kitchens open to the road. Each dish splashed with a fried egg like a yellow and white flower on top. Carts full of fried delicacies wrapped in thick banana leaves.A noxious scent overwhelms me as I see a crowd gather ahead. As I approach, a young man cleaves a huge green fruit, handing slices to the people around. Durian, I think, the fruit the boss’s wife warned me about last night. “You either love it or hate it. But either way it smells disgusting.” It takes a couple of blocks for the smell to recede. There I find a wide path next to the padi. Motorcyclists with whole families balanced on small scooters pass by. Heading toward me, four girls dressed in red plaid uniforms. Their arms entwined, they walk so close together they could almost be one being. They stop. The smallest leans her head on her neighbor’s shoulder and says in a voice full of pity, “Sendiri?”
“Sorry, English only,” I say feeling guilty for my mere two-week course in Bahasa Indonesian.
The girl with ebony braids steps closer. “Alone? By self only?”
I nod. They shake their heads, give me a compassionate stare. The smallest approaches and links her arm with mine. Because she is short, her elbow brushes my hip.
“It’s Ok,” I say. “I like solitude.” All four girls repeat the phrase. Two say soltad. They stare with wide sad eyes. I point to the path ahead. “Jalan, jalan.” I use one of the few Indonesian phrases I know. It means walk or stroll. The girls look at me with intense dismay.
“Selamat tinggal,” I call back to them. “Happy staying. Happy rest of your life.”
terraced padi every bone of the water buffalo shows
Note: “Selamat tinggal” is a farewell phrase in Bahasa Indonesian said by the person leaving. It means “happy staying” or “happy rest of your life.” Also used for ordinary goodbyes.
About the Author
Celebrating her first decade writing haibun, Doris Lynch has recent work in Haibun Today, cho, Frogpond, Modern Haiku, and FemkuMag. She also writes in longer forms.