JAILANGKUNG

2. The Village Girl and a Drawing Compass

It's safe to say that Balung Sunting is a dead village. Almost.

People still live here, given the occupied laundry line that is tied around a mango tree on one end and a bamboo pole on the other end. A nearly black clay pan sits on a wood-fired stove not far from it, breathing out water vapor through the side of its lid. Houses are built in a circle with a large joint front yard in the middle. They are made of rattan, but nothing like what I saw on vacation house catalogs; these houses are far from being well-maintained. A ruined brick building stands in the middle of the village, which I assume was once the home of the richest family in the village.

"I think this village was the property of one wealthy family with plenty of maids in the past," Wira takes the words out of my mouth. He parks his motorbike by the ruined building and secures our helmets under the seat. "I will do the talk, okay?"

"I can speak a bit of Javanese, mind you." I narrow my eyes when he gives me a deadpan look. "What? And I look pretty much like a local." I glance at my tanned skin and toss my dark hair. Having mixed blood running in my veins, people always comment that I look more Indonesian than Dutch, which makes it easier for me to blend with locals during my stay here.

"You speak the low Javanese, and it won't work for these people," he replies, rubbing his hair back and forth to give it more volume after being pressed into his helmet for hours. "So, do me a favor and shut up."

I throw my head back and laugh, but stop it right away when he nudges my shoulder. It's a reminder that I need to behave around people from the village because they don't always handle city girls' attitudes well.

Our voices must have piqued the residents' interest since two men appear from the house with the wooden stove. One has grey hair, who's probably in his seventies, and the other should be in his twenties. I can be wrong because people in this country look so much younger than their actual ages.

"Kulonuwun, Pak," Wira greets them. 

"Sinten nggih?" asks the older man, looking confused and alarmed by our visit.

Wira replies to his question about who we are in his fluent high Javanese, and he was completely right about my language skills. In one blink of an eye, I just catch their moving lips and their cautious body language, yet they look very polite to each other. When Wira touches my arm lightly, I know he's introducing me to them.

I nod at them with a smile, and they respond with the same gesture. They must know I'm not local because they throw questions at Wira while keeping glancing at me. My ears can only catch The Netherlands, study, and family coming out of his mouth. I keep nodding, agreeing with his replies, even though I'm lost in translation.

A sudden movement from another house catches my attention. A young girl with surprisingly beautiful, large eyes peeks at us from behind a window curtain; she can't be older than ten years old. I hold my breath for a few seconds when we lock gazes. Those eyes... They are so familiar. Without thinking twice, I wave at her, but it's when she's yanked back inside by a pale hand. In the next second, the same hands pull the window shutter closed, but I can't see the face.

The girl in the window has distracted my focus from the conversation in front of me. When I shift my gaze back to the two men, anger mixed with fear is thick in the older man's eyes. He spits out words I don't understand as he points his finger at me, but his eyes are on Wira, who is trying to respond to him politely.

"Ora, ora!" he barks, shaking his head. 

The younger man chips in and asks us to leave immediately, but Wira keeps convincing him that we are no threat.

I blink and blink, not sure how to react to this awkward situation. I know the old man doesn't welcome me, but it's hard to understand him. I wish I had been more prepared with their language before I flew over my mother's land.

Instinctively, I move closer to Wira and touch his arm. "Is everything okay?"

He turns to me. "Can you wait on the motorcycle?"

I open my mouth to say no, but his tense look and the two men's discomfort force me to agree. "Okay."

My heart drops to my stomach, knowing the talk doesn't go as expected, but I push the thought aside and trudge back to Wira's motorbike. There must be another way. All I want to know is what happened with Darwanti, a dancer from Balung Sunting, who dated a Dutchman, got knocked up, and gave birth to his daughter twenty-two years ago.

From the corner of my eyes, I can sense pairs of eyes following me from every direction, making me feel uncomfortable standing in the middle of the village. I need to remove myself from here because I hate to be their object of amusement. Without looking back, I walk to the bridge near the welcome plank, which I notice is the only gate to enter and exit this place. At least I can hide behind a big tree near the stream bank, away from those curious eyes.

I release a heavy sigh as I lean against the trunk, my mind trying to process everything. What the hell is going on? Why have they become so upset all of a sudden? Do they know my family? Are they my family? What did Wira say to them? Did he say something disrespectful to the older man? But that's so not the Wiradanu I know, because he's a polite boy, a little too polite to my liking.

"Psst," a small voice stops my train of thought, and my head snaps at the source of distraction.

Near the tree on the other side of the bridge, the girl from the window hides half of her body behind the thick trunk and fixes her eyes on me. A hesitant smile grows in the corners of her lips, but before it reaches a full grin, she presses her lips into a thin line again. If eyes can talk, she seems to have so much to say to me.

"Minah!" a raspy female voice shouts from the village, prompting the girl to jump in her spot.

She quickly looks toward the house she came from as panic washes over her face. She turns to me again and glances down at her hand. It's when I realize that her skinny fingers are holding a small metal object.

"Minah!" the voice calls again.

"Saka Mbok Dar," the girl says to me, throwing the object to the ground. In one swift motion, she turns around and runs back to the village through the bushes.

It takes me several seconds to knock some sense into my head and make my way to the object, which is now lying on the ground and blinking reflecting the afternoon sun. She said it was from Mbok Dar? Who is Mbok Dar? Careful not to attract any prying eyes, I get down on one knee and take a better look at the object — a drawing compass and a tiny rope knotted around its head.