Tales from Jakarta: (1). Nationality Matters

       
Tales from Jakarta: (1) Nationality Matters.
         as recounted by Joon Wan


It was the  colour and diversity of the place that  caught my attention. As we toured the place, during our three-day stay in Luang Prabang, I saw wooden traditional wooden houses that blended with modern urban structures  and old colonial buildings.

 Against a backdrop of verdant vegetation and rugged mountains, the golden roofs of ancient temples gleamed in the morning sunlight.

A river, its banks cloaked in greenery, meandered along a valley and in its  shallows, monks took their early morning bath.

  At dawn, kneeling villagers in multi-coloured clothes lined  the narrow road to offer alms to monks in saffron robes,  while curious tourists gazed with interest at the daily ritual.

   At an open market women sat before long, low tables piled neatly with a wide range of freshly-picked vegetables and fruits

   Young women in brightly-coloured blouses, carrying baskets with bamboo poles slung across their shoulders, walked jauntily with rhythmic steps as they headed home after a hard day's work at the market.. 

   Luang Prabang with its varied architectural forms, rich cultural traditions and multitude of ethnic groups is now a Unesco World Heritage centre and has become the foremost showpiece in Laos. Many hotels  have sprung up to cater to the needs of  the increasing number of tourists.

Municipal Council building

 When our six-member team from the Asean Secretariat  arrived in Luang Prabang  for our meeting at the Municipal Council, we were given accommodation in one of these newly-built hotels. Our team comprising  members from the Philippines, Thailand, Indonesia and Malaysia is perhaps a microcosm of  Luang Prabang‘s diverse population and like the town's colourful character, our team too had  its fair share of  colourful characters.   

As I walked into the hotel’s restaurant, the morning after we arrived, I caught sight of my Indonesian colleague, Iko, sitting alone  at the breakfast table, a forlorn figure in the dimly-lit room. I took a seat at his table and greeted him casually, 
“Hi morning. You ok?” 
Iko did not respond to my greeting, but kept staring blankly at his still untouched plate of toast and egg.
Then after a few minutes of uneasy silence, he  whispered haltingly,
“I saw something this morning…in my room.”
I sensed he was fighting down an urge to share his experience, but noticing the tinge of nervousness in his voice and his downcast eyes , I decided to give him a little assurance before egging him on.  After he had regained his composure, he began to relate the morning’s incident.  He said he had risen very early  for his morning prayer and was still relaxing in bed when he was startled by the unexpected appearance of a lady and a young girl who had somehow managed to slip quietly into  his room. 
 His narration was interrupted by the sudden arrival of my boss and  another colleague who joined us at our table for four. Before Iko proceeded with his story, I related briefly to them what Iko had told me. 
Iko then continued with his story. The lady assured him that they were real and not a figment of his imagination. She explained that she and her daughter were accidentally killed at a bus station and needed his assistance to bring them home.  As he listened to her , a rising fear gripped him, and he began reciting the holy verses from the Quran, but she seemed unperturbed by the recitation and instead saw her advancing slowly towards his bed. She extended her arms in the customary Muslim greeting and  under her hypnotic spell he absently extended his hands in response to her friendly gesture. Feeling  her icy hands, he instinctively pulled away his hands, recoiling from the touch. His action must have startled the lady, as both of them vanished into  thin air. .  
Curious, I asked Iko, "What does the lady meant by 'home'?
"I really don't know," he replied.
Although I had an available answer, I decided to keep my silence. 
I then asked Iko, “What language did she use when she spoke to you?”
“Oh, she spoke Indonesian,” he replied.
Our team members had two Filipinos and a Thai, who could hardly speak or understand the Indonesian language, while the rest of us had a fair knowledge of the language. It left me wondering how the ghost had the uncanny ability to seek out an Indonesian who could communicate with her.

I asked Iko, “How did the ghost know you’re Indonesian?”

“Maybe, the ghost  checks his passport first,” my boss replied with a faint smile.

We could not help suppressing our laughter , except for Iko who was not in the mood for joke, as he was still recovering from the morning's incident and  had to contend with the daunting task  of  going back alone  to his room. Behind the facade of calmness and laughter, we were harboring our own growing fear. Iko had, meanwhile, crept quietly to the hotel’s front desk to ask for a change of room, but came back disappointed, as all the rooms were fully booked. 
I then asked my Filipino colleague, Joel, who was the only other guy in our team, if he would be kind enough to allow Iko share his room. The bewildered look on Joel's face told me what he thought of the idea. He said,

“ But....what if the ghost decides to bring a Filipino friend and speak Tagalog to me?” 

So, we could only watch  as a lone figure walked with slow and hesitant steps towards  his room, wondering if someone was already waiting for him there.

On the last day, as we prepared to leave for Jakarta, Iko told us he felt relief and glad that on subsequent nights, the uninvited guests did not visit him.

But then .... they too could be   busy making preparation for their flight 'home'. 

Notes: Some names have been changed to protect the individuals privacy.









  

A cry in the night

G

A cry in the night

by C S Wan

It was dark. It was late. And she was alone. Yes, mother was all alone in the darkness of a kitchen lit by the pale glow of a small, solitary kerosene lamp Her kids were fast asleep, but she had to tidy up the place before she could retire for the night.
The few neighbouring houses were already shrouded in darkness as their occupants too were deep in slumber, Outside, all was still and quiet, except for the sound of the night wind and the rustle of leaves from the jering tree that stood stately just outside the kitchen’s door.
She had just stacked the last plate in the cupboard when she heard the plaintive cry; the unmistakable cry of a baby. Perhaps, there is nothing strange about the cry of a baby in the night. Yes, nothing unusual, except that there was not a single baby in the immediate neighbourhood. And the cry? It did not come from any of the neighbouring houses, but from the top of the jering tree. The tree that stood next to the kitchen‘s door.
Mother picked up the oil lamp and retreated hurriedly into the security of the bedroom. She was told that the cry would sometimes be followed by a laughter, a mocking laughter that would send cold shiver skittering down your spine. She heard that was how a Pontianak would announce its presence and strike fear on its intended victim .
I cannot remember if she did hear the laughter, but I remember her telling us that on another late night she heard a goat bleating from the top of the same jering tree.
Mother only told us about the night’s incident long after we had moved out from the old house. As for the jering tree it was chopped down prematurely and a clump of banana trees near the house was also relocated as she was told they were the favourite haunts of the pontianak during the day.
When we were kids mother used to tell us story about the Pontianak. I remember at meal times we would sit at the long dining table in the kitchen. Whenever we spilled rice on the floor she would tell us,
“Don’t eat like a Pontianak.”
We wondered how a Pontianak which was believed to be the ghost of a woman who had died while giving birth could eat rice .

“Yes, it is a ghost,” she told us, “ but it can change into a woman if a nail is inserted into the hole on top of its head. And in its human form, the food it consumes will just fall to the floor.”
Then she told us a story about a man who had encountered a Pontianak. He took a nail and plunged it into the hole in the Pontianak’s head and the Pontianak was transformed into a beautiful woman. Captivated by her beauty, he married her. The couple managed to have a child. One morning while her husband was at work she asked her teenage daughter to pick the lice from her long hair. While combing her mother’s hair she noticed a nail sticking from her head. She pulled it out. Her mother changed into a Pontianak and with a shrill cry flew away into the morning air, not to be seen again.
Today, with the glare of street lights, the incessant drone of traffic and the blare of siren and horns, the Pontianak is perhaps a thing of the past. Maybe all the stories I used to hear were the creation of old folks who wanted to frighten their children from venturing into the night or of wives who wanted to deter their wayward husbands from their late night outings.
Then early one morning Tijah, our part-time helper, burst excitedly into the house and said,
“Did you hear about the Pontianak?”
“Where?” I asked.
“Padang Jambu.”
“When?” I asked, my curiosity aroused.
“About a week ago,” she replied.
Then she told me about a young Malay guy who was driving home after a late night meeting. After dropping off his friend, he drove home along the dark and deserted road. As the car made its slow descent down the dark road leading to his house, he switched on the distant headlights. The glaring light revealed something on the roof top of one of the houses. He stopped the car and peered through the foggy windscreen. The figure of a woman with long matted hair and clad in white was perched right on the roof top. Two red eyes from a hideous face glared down fiercely at him. As it began to bare its fangs, he quickly recited some Holy verses, reversed the car, stepped on the gas and headed straight for his friend’s house.
Although I tried hard not to believe the story, I could feel goose bumps rippling up my arms as Padang Jambu where the incident occurred was just a few hundred meters from our housing estate.

Sometimes at night as I lay awake in bed and listen to the sound of the night birds from the nearby cempedak tree and hear the grating of its branches against the window sill, they remind me of Tijah’s tale and about the cry mother heard long ago_ just a cry in the night.

Night of the hungry ghosts

Night of the hungry ghosts
by Wan Chwee SengThe heady fragrance of incense that mingled with the acrid smell of burnt joss papers wafted across the night air to the neon-lit apartment’s living room. From a nearby makeshift stage came the deafening blare of music that was certain to wake up the livings and probably the dead. It was the night of the hungry ghost festival and a concert , known locally as ‘getai’ was being staged to entertain both the dead and the livings.

A 'getai' performance

On that day, the 15th day of the 7th month of the lunar calendar, the local Taoists and Buddhists believe the gates of the lower realm will be opened to allow the wandering spirits to wander the earth in search of food and entertainment.
 
From high above the apartment’s window at Toh Yi Drive, Singapore I noticed a fairly large crowd had already occupied most of the seats in front of the brightly-lit stage, however, the front row remained vacant. These seats, I was told, were specially reserved for the ‘honoured guests‘. With the din, glaring light and incessant flow of traffic I wondered if they would be filled.

As I gazed with interest at the scene below me, I recalled a story  my elder brother told us about an incident that involved him and our cousin, Fook, during the night of the hungry ghosts. 

It was the mid-fifties and we were then living in the small village of Batu Berendam, Melaka. Six wooden houses with palm-thatched roofs that stood a few hundred metres apart constituted our neighbourhood. A dirt track, flanked by dense undergrowth and towering palm trees, ran from our house to the narrow main road. Darkness came fast to this village as electricity had yet to come to our village. On the night of the hungry ghost festival, as soon as dusk set in, the children were hastily ushered into the houses and we were warned not to venture outside as the wandering spirits which could assume human or animal forms, we were told, would lure us away and those who were not rescued on time could even be spirited to the netherworld at the end of the seventh moon.
 
So, as obedient children we sat in the dimly-lit room and peered through the half-opened window at the darkness beyond while our young minds conjured ghostly images. Unknown to us, my brother and Fook had slipped quietly out of the house and made their way to the village Chinese temple located about half a kilometre away. The temple which stood on a low hill was already brightly-lit up with Chinese lanterns and red candles while the greyish smoke of joss sticks in incense burners plumed skywards, filling the night air with their fragrance. Before the effigy of the ’King of Hell’ was an altar on which was placed various food offerings together with miniature paper items and joss paper

Food offerings

.

My brother and Fook joined in the night's festivities with the mostly adult devotees.. At last content with the excitement of the night, they decided to sneak home before anyone noticed their absence .
 
When they emerged from the temple, darkness had already enveloped the countryside. Although there was no street light, the road before them was clearly visible as above them an August moon shone brightly in a cloudless sky. As they trudged along the deserted road all they could hear was the sound of their own footsteps and the incessant hums of the myriad insects. From within the few wooden shops at the road junction only the faint glow of oil lamps could be seen through the cracks of the wooden walls. The residents were either at the temple or had retired for the night.
 
The moment they turned onto the dirt track leading to the house, they began to tread gingerly as the path was pitted with potholes and they had to be wary of snakes that were fond of basking in the warmth of the path. 

Suddenly, a slight movement in front of them caught their attention. A murky shape straddled their path. They stopped dead on their track. As their eyes adjusted to the pallid light, they saw something that sent a chill down their spines. Hundreds of ‘snakes’ blocked their path. The mass of writhing, glistening serpentine bodies were endlessly criss-crossing the only path that led to the house

'Snakes' criss-crossing their path

.


Mustering all their courage they leapt across the snake-liked shapes, sprinted the few metres to the house and burst breathlessly into the safety of the house. Brother was not affected by the night's incident, but Fook was taken ill and had to seek the help of Ali Mat, the village shaman, whose holy water was a panacea for all illness.

Worried that they would be reprimanded for disobedience, they kept the night‘s incident to themselves. It was only years later that they told us about the incident. Today, more than fifty years on, they still remember vividly that night _ the night of the hungry ghosts.

A beautiful encounter

A beautiful encounter

Story and illustration by CS Wan

From the warmth and comfort of the sofa, I can hear it _ the churring call of a nightjar. It is a call usually associated with a moonlit night. Leaving my comfort zone, I head for the front porch.
Outside, the garden is bathed in the soft light of the moon’s reflected rays. Strolling down the driveway, I scan the sky for the source of the light. And just above the roof top I see it, a golden orb hanging low in the night sky.

The newly-mowed lawn has been transformed into patterns of light and shade. The morning flowers with their vibrant hues and verdant foliage, now tone down by the moon’s magic touch, blend harmoniously with the night’s soft, tranquil landscape.


The light dims. A patch of grey cloud, trailing wispy white clouds, sails past the moon. And my mind too begins to drift to a different time and a different place.


It is the mid-fifties and a full moon is casting its light on a palm-thatched house in the small village of Batu Berendam, Melaka. Out on the front porch my siblings, cousins wait eagerly for grandpa to regale us with tales about his adventures as an ox cart driver.

An ox cart

One night, he told us, his friend was driving his ox cart along a stretch of deserted road. Above him a full moon was engaged in a game of hide-and-seek. Then in the wan light of the moon he saw her, a beautiful young woman with long flowing tresses. She was standing under the shade of a frangipani tree and cradling her baby, wrapped in a white cloth in the crook of her arms. She flagged down his cart. Taking pity on the poor, lonely soul, burdened by her baby, he beckoned her to board his cart. The night air carried with it the fragrance of the frangipani blossoms and the musty smell of decay. He tried to strike a conversation with the young woman, but his attempts were met with grunts and monosyllabic answers. So he continued the drive in silence, listening to the tinkle of the cow bells and the squeak and crunch of the cart's wheels.

 After a short distance she asked him to stop and she alighted gingerly from his cart. Concerned for her safety, he stopped to watch her as she walked gracefully along a dirt road and melted into the darkness. 

Then he suddenly realized the young woman had left her baby in his cart. He reached out for the baby which was lying quiet and motionless at the back of the cart. He noticed the baby was wrapped tightly in a frayed white cloth stained yellow with age. He slowly unfurled the cloth. 

The sight which met his eyes sent a chilly spasm down his spine. Instead of a baby, the unfurled cloth revealed a tombstone encrusted with moss.

 At that very moment a long spine-chilling, mocking laughter tore through the silence of the night. He glanced at the direction of the sound. The full moon which had broken away from a cloud -bank revealed blurred outline of tombstones standing stark and cold in its pallid light. 

Tossing the tombstone over the side of his cart, the terror-stricken driver and his startled animals bolted from the scene of the apparition.

“Come in. It’s already late,” a voice calls out from within the house and snaps me out of my reverie.

A faint fragrance of jasmine wafts out of the darkness and a sudden gust of wind rattles the wind -chimes. They sound like the tinkles of cow bells heard long ago. Recalling grandpa's tale about the beautiful encounter, I step quickly into the safety of the house.

Writer's notes: Photo of the bullock cart courtesy of asianimages.wordpress.com

Lesson on kindness of kampung folk

The Star
Lifestyle
March 16, 2011

Lesson on kindness of kampung folk
Story and illustration by Wan Chwee Seng


The kindness and compassion of simple kampung folk, provide a lesson for life.


THE Rukun Tetangga post stood dark and deserted. Across the road, the low hill was still shrouded in the night’s mist. A street lamp at the foot of the hill cast a golden pool of light which lent an eerie glow to the white headstones which stippled the slopes.
Not a soul was in sight. It was three in the morning. No sane person would be up and about at this unearthly hour. But here I was all alone in the car with all its windscreens tightly rolled up.
“Ponteng! Late again,” I muttered to myself, as not a single RT member had shown up. I was about to beat a hasty retreat when I heard the faint sound of approaching footsteps. I peered through the foggy windscreen. A dark and solitary figure approached the car.
"Hello, sir! Sorry I’m late.”
Through the gloom I made out the figure of Quek, my ex-student. I unlocked the padlocked door of the pondok and the two of us were soon seated on a makeshift bench, while a single naked bulb hanging from a rafter raked long ghostly shadows on the wooden wall.
“Still staying in Taman Sentosa?” he inquired.
“Where else to go?” I replied.
“Well, the place used to be our playground. The place was then a jungle and had a swamp. My brother and I would often help our parents who are farmers to bring the water-buffaloes to wallow in the swamp or graze among the trees on the hill. There were plenty of cemeteries on the higher ground, closely laid out like plots of sweet potatoes.”
“Typical of a farmer’s son to come up with such an analogy,” I thought to myself.
On most night duties, the topic of conversation would invariably gravitate towards the supernatural. That night I hoped would be an exception. I was sadly mistaken.
“Have you heard of the penanggalan?” Quek asked, unexpectedly.
“Aah, yes,” I drawled, trying to sound disinterested. I caught Quek staring past me into the distant darkness, trying to recapture some long-lost memories.
The mention of the word penanggalan, however, had triggered a memory and my thoughts started to drift back to my childhood when Mother used to tell us about the penanggalan.
It was supposedly a female ghost with trailing entrails. It would float through the night air in search of human prey and was especially attracted to infants. It would then drain the victims of their blood until its entrails became engorged with the blood. In the old days, whenever there was an expecting mother, the thorny mengkuang leaves would be placed under the house to deter the penanggalan.
My distant thoughts were interrupted by Quek’s voice.
“Sir, do you think there is such a thing as a penanggalan?”
“I’m not sure,” I replied.
“Well, I used to think the stories I used to hear were just stories told by the adults to scare the children. But after a recent incident I’m not that sure.”
Then he recounted this story: “Besides farming, my parents also buy buffaloes from outlying villages in the nearby states and sell them for a profit. One day, we heard there were some buffaloes for sale in Johor, so my brother and I were asked to help purchase them. When we reached the village, we were informed that the buffaloes had already been sold, but a villager directed us to another remote village.
“After travelling for miles, we finally found the village which was located at the edge of a jungle. By the time we concluded our business deal, dusk had already set in. The village headman advised us to stay for the night as wild elephants and other wild beasts were known to prowl the vicinity in the late evening.
“We were housed in a small hut. That evening we were entertained to a dinner of chicken curry and home-grown vegetables.
“I awoke the next morning to the sound of squawking and the fluttering of wings and a voice shooing something away. I cupped my ear and pressed it against the tiny cracks in the wall. ‘Shoo, shoo, shoo,’ came the voice again.
“I peered through the cracks of the bamboo-plaited wall. The pale glow of oil lamps were still flickering from within flimsy walls. A sliver of light was just beginning to tint the distant horizon.
“Who could be tending chickens at this hour,” I wondered.
“I heard the sound of approaching footsteps and the headman appeared at our door. He asked us to follow him and led us to a clearing beside our hut. A few villagers had already gathered there. They were staring at something. I crept closer and spotted entrails dangling from a barbed wire fence.
“Why all this excitement about a chicken entrails?” I thought.
“Can you see it,” the headman whispered.
“I peered through the pre-dawn light. I shuddered at the sight that met my eyes. A woman’s head with long matted hair hovered over a barbed wire fence. The exposed entrails trailing below the head were caught in the sharp barbs of the wire fence.
The creature’s steely eyes glared menacingly at the onlookers. It snarled and groaned in anger and in pain. Then it opened its mouth to display long, blood-stained fangs. It started to chase away a few chickens which were trying to peck at the entrails.
“Shoo-o-o,” it hissed. The chickens retreated with a flutter of wings, but began a new onslaught. Blood was oozing from its perforated entrails.
“A villager who took pity on the creature came with a long bamboo pole. He prodded at the part of the entrails which was caught in the barbed wire. After a few attempts he managed to free the creature. It hovered momentarily over the fence, let out a blood-curdling wail and floated away into the distant wilderness.”
When Quek finished his story, I realised what he had just narrated was not just about the supernatural. It was also a story about the kindness of simple kampung folks who offered food and shelter to two total strangers, a story about the compassion of kampung folks for an unfortunate creature.
I glanced at my watch and stifled a yawn.
“I think the other members won’t be coming. Let’s call it a day, Quek.”
“Okay,” he replied.
As I fumbled with the padlock, Quek was already heading towards his farmhouse.
I hurried into the car, glanced at the rear view mirror to ascertain there was no uninvited passenger, stepped on the gas and headed for home.
Along the way, I caught sight of Quek disappearing into the tall grass leading to his farm. Only his head was visible above the tall grass – a head bobbing in the pre-dawn air.