JAILANGKUNG

1. Balung Sunting

My late father would've disowned me if he knew what I was doing.

Don't get me wrong. He was a chill dad and had put so much trust in me. Freedom was an issue, except for this. But this is the ultimate reason I took the student exchange program to Indonesia, despite my family's objection. In my defense, no child should be denied the opportunity to learn about their roots.

"Are you sure this is the village you're looking for?" Wira's voice pulls me out of my bubble of thoughts.

I look up at a decayed wooden plank nailed into a tree's trunk with carved writing: Desa Balung Sunting, 5 km. Before us, an unpaved lane splits the woods into two groves, leading us to our destination. At least we're not greeted by dense trees and overgrown bushes, which would easily block the sun's rays from sneaking through the foliage. Being in an unfamiliar place, I prefer sufficient light to observe my surroundings.

I take off my helmet and hug it to the side of my waist since it has been stinking hot. Even the fresh breeze during our motorcycle ride couldn't stop my hair from drenching with sweat. I glance back at the main road we've just exited and revert my eyes to the wooden plank once again. "Yeah. I'm sure it's the one."

My friend eyes me from his motorcycle rear-view mirror with a frown on his face. "I've never been here before, and I'm still not sure what we're going to find in that village. To be honest, I don't know if people still live there, let alone those who know your family," he says. "So, don't get your hopes up. And if I don't feel good about this before we arrive at the village, I will turn around and drive home, no matter what."

I roll my eyes. Wira and his calculated moves are like two sides of the coin, but I know better than to let a complaint roll off my tongue. "Yeah, okay."

"Wear your helmet, please. Just to be safe." He presses the red ignition button on the dashboard, followed by the roaring sound of his motorcycle engine.

Wira is everything I'm not. He's compliant, a planner, compassionate, friendly, and has unlimited stocks of patience. I still remember the first time we met. He welcomed me and some other overseas students on our first day at Gadjah Mada University. As one of those passionate campus activists, he offered us a tour in case we were interested in one of their programs. Wira speaks excellent English, and long story short, he and I became friends.

He's also the only one who agreed to drive me to this place when the rest said no. So, I'm not planning to piss him off and put my green helmet back on while hiding my reluctance.

People thought I was crazy when they knew I was planning for this trip, especially when they knew Balung Sunting village was in the middle of nowhere. Superstition is insanely thick in this society. It's amazing how people fear the unseen. According to them, the woods are one of the popular places to encounter the entity. But come on, why would it be an issue if we can't even see them? Let the unseen stay unseen so that everyone can mind their own business. Very simple, right?

As we ride farther into the woods, the sound of vehicles passing by the asphalt road recedes behind us, replaced by the sound of birds chiming and insects purring in a high pitch. I'm sure we would hear more sounds if the engine of Wira's motorcycle didn't grunt along the way. It's his baby, but to me, it's just a grumpy old Honda, which surprisingly still can run a hundred kilometers per hour.

"Why haven't we bumped into anyone? Maybe this is not the main trail to the village?" I say my thoughts out loud as I observe my surroundings. There's no sign of movement except the swaying bushes teased by the lazy afternoon wind.

"That's possible, judging from the shitty passage," he replies. In the next second, we bounce slightly from the bumpy ground. "Sorry. Couldn't avoid that one."

"Do you think your moped will survive this?"

"It's a motorcycle," he corrects me. I know he hates it when I call his baby a moped, but it's the fun of it. "Of course, it will survive the trail. It's a Honda Astrea Grand. I know you don't have this in Holland, but I'm telling you that this is the best one the world can offer."

"Why would we need a motorcycle if we can ride normal bikes? It's healthier and good for nat–" I pause when my eyes catch a dark shadow by the bushes we're passing. It's hard to make out, but it looks like someone standing wearing a furry costume. And it's inhumanly huge and tall. People in my country have the highest average height in the world, but this guy can easily put Dutchmen to shame.

A realization comes down to me like a bucket of cold water. I'm looking at a bear!

Shit.

I freeze in the backseat of Wira's motorcycle, not daring to make a move that might trigger the bear to hunt us for its afternoon snack. I'm not sure how fast a bear can run, but I hope the speed of Wira's motorcycle is intimidating enough for it. Once we're far enough, I slowly turn my head to check if the furry beast still stands in his spot, but it's gone.

I frantically sweep my surroundings with my eyes, and the bear is nowhere to be seen. "Huh. Where did it go?"

"What?"

"Didn't you see that?"

"See what?" he asks, looking sideways and following the direction of my pointing out finger. "What did you see, Bente?"

"I'm not sure." I was sure I saw a bear, but who would believe a bear lives in the woods near the south coast of Yogyakarta? Even a bear itself would laugh at the possibility. When the motorcycle slows down, I squeeze his shoulders. "Don't stop. Keep driving."

His shoulders tense up under my hold. "Okay. Maybe it's a sign for us to go back."

"No. No. No," I reply quickly. "It's nothing, really. I think I saw it wrong."

"Bente."

"I thought I saw someone, okay? But seems like it was just a dead tree," I burst out a lie. At this point, I don't care because I don't want to go back. We're so close to our destination now.

Wira doesn't respond to my stupid reply. He must know I lied, yet he doesn't want to make a fuss about it, and I thank him for that. Maybe he has regretted his decision to take me to this Balung Sunting, but he just wants to keep his promise and get it done with. For the rest of our trip, I refrain from looking around. Keeping my gaze on the trail is the best choice because one wrong move might change Wira's mind.

My thoughts are still on the furry big guy I saw several minutes ago when we reach a wooden bridge, which bends over a nearly dried-up creek. Judging by the length of the bridge, it must have been a wider stream in the past, but it has shrunk to at least half of its original size while wild bushes take residence on its bank. Right on the other side of the bridge, another moldy wooden plank welcomes us, but a big chunk of the writing is ruined, leaving only two readable words: sugeng and unting.

If I have to guess, it may have said "Welcome to Balung Sunting Village".