Beyond Rangkasbitung

THE HOUSE

We ventured through a muddy pathway into the heart of the forest. Notwithstanding the lack of the light, the old man kept a steady pace, accurately calculated every step he made, whereas I, with the help of the flashlight, struggled to follow him. The vegetation grew thicker as we walked farther—from benign bushes and shrubs to ancient trees with roots that popped out from underground like malevolent hands waiting for someone to stumble on. It was indeed no longer than five minutes to reach the house, although it turned out to be more a shack than a house. The wooden house felt lonely and dismal with no other buildings could be seen near it. It reminded me of the grandmother's house in the Little Red Riding Hood. For a moment, a thought crossed my mind if he was tricking me into something (a murder shed?). When we entered the house, I felt guilty for thinking badly of it.

The living room was neat—mostly due to the facts that there were depressingly small numbers of furniture—and surprisingly warm. No lamps nor any electronics can be seen within the house. On the ceiling, there was, I believed, an outdated appliance of illumination (a petromaks, perhaps?). One aspect I held in high regard was the smell: a fragrant of traditional incense—one you can expect when you entered into one of the old Javanese Keraton—but at a sensible level of intensity it did not cause one's nose to wrinkle.

"Here," the old man handed me a clean towel, "dry yourself up."

"Uh, thanks," I said, amazed by how helpful he was. I started to wonder if there were people who were also stranded and took a shelter in this house before. I took my shoes and my hoodie off—although my shirt was dry, my pants was thoroughly wet it was so uncomfortable. The towel proved to be very useful.

"You are the third one this month," said the old man after he sank himself into some sort of a grandpa chair. The fact that he was, in that instant, no longer soaked bugged me.

"Sorry?"

"I said you are the third one this month!" he said again, louder this time. He thought I didn't hear, when in fact I didn't understand. After a few moments, I got what he means. For a second, I mused about whether he was capable of mind-reading since he had, in a way, answered the question I just thought of.

The old man continued, "Well, feel free to rest in here. It is much better compared to waiting on the station, isn't it? Warm drinks will be served shortly. There were snacks, but unfortunately my last guest was so fond of it he ate all of them and even brought home some! So, enjoy yourself while you are here. Then, you can lie down or maybe catch some sleep in that chair," he pointed to a worn-out broad chair made out of rattan and then shouted, "Kiona! Is the tea ready yet?"

"Coming!" A woman's voice came from the kitchen. A few minutes later, a small woman appeared holding a steaming cup of tea. I stole a glance at her and made a quick judgment. She was not someone who could exactly be called as pretty, but there was some attractive quality about her: the long black hair (tied into a delicate bun as if she just attended a college graduation), the graceful way she walks gingerly managing to deliver the drink unspilled, and the childish amiable smile she gave when she handed me the cup of tea. One aspect I could not judge was her age: she looked young enough—small hip and bosom—to put on the high school's white and grey uniform on a daily basis; yet from the way she carried herself and the type of garment she don, she could easily pass as a young mother.

"Drink, you'll feel better," she said.

The tea was at the perfect temperature when I sipped it. At first, it tasted funny—herbal, grassy, with earthy and rustic undertone. As if the woman, on her way home yesterday's evening, picked some leaves, fruits, and flowers she could find in the forest, boiled them all down, poured the water into a cup, and dubbed it as tea. Yet, slowly, the taste got better with every sip. I could feel the warmth of it in my tummy, then spread to my body. My fatigue and headache diminished at the rate I hoped I could obtain whenever I took a Panadol. I made a mental note to ask where I can buy it later. As I regained my strength, I suddenly remember a burning question I should ask.