The Bow Can't Always Be Relaxed (Part 24)

John Wittenberg gives a number of personal reflections on his journey through Thailand and countries in the region, which were previously published in the short story collection 'The bow can't always be relaxed' (2007). What started for John as a flight away from pain and sorrow has grown into a search for meaning. Buddhism turned out to be a passable path. His stories appear regularly on Thailandblog.

Batavia

From the Philippines I fly to Bali. The first few days I spend sauntering and dead calm, knowing that I have a whole month. Being so wasteful with time has its charms unknown to me because it leaves a lot of room for small details: one of the greatest attractions of my way of travelling.

But I have just received the message that my mother will be operated on soon. The doctors are already sharpening the knives to replace a heart valve. Within a few days I will fly head over heels to the Netherlands. A large number of plans fall apart, but incomparable, of course, with the suffering my mother is going through now. I have five days to spare and decide to complete all plans in that time frame. Madness, of course.

But a man with my passions and money won't see that idiocy until after the fact. I feel like a Japanese with a travel book titled: “See Europe in a long weekend”.

I take a deep breath in Bali and immediately fly to Jakarta. Bangkok has its traffic, but in Jakarta it is really impossible to get through. I climb the steps of the National Museum (renowned for its Asian treasures) at about XNUMXam, but the doors slam shut right in front of me.

The next day they don't open until a late breakfast. If I had to look for a job, I would apply here first. I then walk around aimlessly in a city of millions and actually end up in a special museum, an abandoned Dutch bank building. It's as if a toxic cloud killed every member of staff in the XNUMXs and after clearing the corpses, emptying the safe and taking all the records, the place is sealed for further investigation that never took place.

It's exactly like a bank building you see in old movies: a marble counter with curled latticework from a master coppersmith. Behind that desks for the clerks, a slightly larger desk for the main church and a separate office for the chief. The great thing is that you can arrive anywhere, spin around on swivel office chairs, slam a half-metre-thick safe door (by Lips) and shuffle through the entire bank building. You still see many Dutch signs and photos of tempo doeoe, with dozens of Indian clerks behind high black typewriters or bent behind folio ledgers at the ready with a pencil. Also in one photo a white colonial whose only job is to look as if he has things under his thumb.

Sometimes a director comes around the corner with a surly look, shouting “oh and woe” because not enough profit is being made from our Indies, while calmly filling his pockets. Also a job very suitable for me.

To be alone in a museum, without attendants, is now a heart's desire fulfilled. The style of this bench is exactly that of my primary school building of the Mgr. Savelberg School. It has glazed ocher wall tiles, black moldings and natural stone stairs. It's indestructible, stylish and imbued with all kinds of memories that well up when you're allowed to roam around such a building alone in combination with my imaginative mind. I let my thoughts run wild and suddenly I see Sister Hildebertha walking around my primary school, wearing a hard white hood (one of those that you regularly see popping up in Louis de Funès films).

She asks me where the quarter leftover money is, which I sweetened. And every day I hoped that with her elephant memory she would forget it the next few days. And then comes Sister Florence, very modern for the time with a blue short veil. She has wrinkled pale white delicate skin and a wedding ring with a cross, which is a symbol of being the bride of Jesus. She looks at me very sweetly as always and with an innate tenderness, gently clapping her hands, she warns me not to run in the corridors.

All this fills me so with the gratitude of happy school years. And all of a sudden in the heart of Jakarta. How nice that the National Museum closes so early.

A dead temple full of vibrant life

From Jakarta to Yokjakarta is a XNUMX minute flight. Since it is my last day in Indonesia, I treat myself to a five-star hotel: Melia Purosani. In no time I'm wallowing in a marble bubble bath, brushing my teeth with the hotel brush (with a sweet mini tube of toothpaste), combing my hair with a new comb, sprinkling some house cologne over my delicate cheeks and letting the padded ear buds do the clean work.

I never know what to do with conditioner, let some talcum powder float through the air, uselessly sand my nails for a few seconds with a file and shave myself until I bleed with a razor-sharp blade. I just use everything for fun, although I haven't (yet) found a destination for the strawberry-flavored condom, which is invitingly placed in a small wicker basket.

Cut and shaved, I stroll like a real gentleman in the main street Marlboro, named after the English duke. The name has been retained, because everything seems to be better than the Dutch who have kept their house here. The scrawny owner of a bicycle taxi is too lazy to cycle his way to the Sultan Palace for the same price as a normal taxi. Well, the land and the climate dictate man's way of life. And while walking, you miss fewer details.

The palace is a rather messy jumble of some open pavilions. Fade in paint. The father of the current sultan, Hamenku Buwono the ninth, moved to a more modern accommodation earlier. Having become rich through the clever Dutch strategy of feeding the sultan and in return letting his henchmen maintain order (so that we could last for centuries with a handful of officials), he suddenly, cunning as he was, combined a hanging shower with a bright light when the Japs had to leave the country with their tails between their legs. He joined the rebels of Sukarno and saw this support rewarded with the vice presidency.

The current tenth sultan is politically quiet and lives happily on the bribes from the past given by the Dutch. Now all that remains for us are some poorly maintained pavilions where his father's boots, some faded uniforms and awards are exhibited as if they were Tutankhamen's treasures.

The Minervan testimonial of his beautiful Leiden years is endearing. But I didn't fly to Yokjakarta for that. The main target is of course the Borobudur, apart from some Javanese women, probably the most beautiful thing that can happen to you here on Java.

The second stone was laid on the first in AD 730 and seventy years later the job was done. With quite a bit of setback, because parts already collapsed during construction and the plan was put aside in despair, but luckily the thread was picked up again after a while. As with so many temples, this one symbolizes the cosmos. And then here the Buddhist.

There are ten levels divided into three parts. It is a mandala, a geometric model for meditation. The first layer is ordinary everyday low life (khamadhatu), the second layer (rupadhatu) is the highest form attainable through meditation during earthly life, and the third (top) layer is arupadhatu where we are liberated from suffering because we have no desire more for worldly things. The pilgrim traverses this five-kilometer road in ten circles clockwise, while concentrating on the reliefs that accompany him.

Located far outside the city, the temple can be reached by local buses, but time is running out and I hire a taxi for the whole day and drive through side roads through the bright green rice fields and villages.

And then the Borobudur suddenly appears from afar in an enchanting fertile beautiful green landscape with the volcano Goenoeng Merapi (2911 meters) as a faithful, moderately smoking companion. Wisps of smoke emanate from the volcano's mouth, but they might as well be clouds today.

And then you approach the temple. Stripped of all living Buddhist features, it is a dead temple to me. Monks and pilgrims should walk here spreading incense, thanksgivings should echo here and good wishes murmured I want to hear. I want to see flowers in hidden corners in front of ancient Buddha statues, see blackened spots of burning candles lit by deep believers with great anticipation and hear the lisping of the chants from the stones here, but I hear none of that.

Even my imagination fails me for a moment. I only walk the pilgrim's path with a tourist interest. Arriving at the top, I gather courage and put my hand through one of the holes in a bell-shaped stone casing of a Buddha statue and touch his image with the fullest mental strength I can radiate, look at Buddha and pray: "Please doctors, use all your strength, knowledge and experience to do the right thing during the operation, because my mother is the one I love the most.”

Then I squeeze my eyes into a depth and suddenly I dive into a silence, don't notice the tourists around me anymore and am in the company of my mother. Then I meditate slowly three times around the great central stupa and let my thoughts pass through everyone I hold dear. And at the same time thinking of the joy I feel from the love and affection received from them. And then suddenly the dead temple is full of vibrant life.

A flashy businessman

After a refreshing dip in the somewhat quiet nightlife of Yokjakarta, I wake up excited, because today I am the celebrated businessman. I leave a mess in the bathroom of towels, towels, used bottles, snowy talcum spots, a comb, knife and many other hardly used attributes.

I take one last wistful look at the virgin condom, still waiting longingly in the wicker basket. Then I walk almost routinely to the lounge and casually throw my key on the shiny counter. I ask the receptionist for a taxi at eight and hastily enjoy an unprecedented extensive breakfast buffet with three kinds of melon juice.

At eight o'clock the receptionist signals that my taxi is waiting in front of the door with a roaring engine, salutes the doorman, hung with gold braid, his no less carnivalesque colleague opens the door for me and the bellboy carefully lifts my suitcases into the trunk. The guard keeps his hand on his holster ready to guarantee me a safe exit and the taxi driver smiles and raises his temporary status, because he gets to drive such an expensive gentleman.

There are about six people working with me and I enjoy every moment. I lavish banknotes, for I know my place in this matchless drama. For a moment the holster was not even touched.” To the airport please!” sounds hurriedly from my business mouth and with screeching tires I disappear, gratefully stared at by half the hotel staff.

I'm biting my nails now, because the scheduled flight arrived in Jakarta with an hour delay. But I'm in time for the next flight from Jakarta to Bangkok.

I have an extensive lunch with a few glasses of wine and even get cognac. The stewardess looks endeared when she pours a second glass, then I doze off with myself, happy with myself, and after a safe landing in Bangkok in the evening, I waddle like a penguin out of the plane in search of my suitcase, which I only close with repetitive sharpness. can recognize the positions of my eyes.

A bit wobbly in front of the counter, I order a ticket for the last flight to Chiang Mai, make a reservation for the hotel by telephone and take another deep breath. To my utter surprise I actually land in Chiang Mai, take a taxi straight to my hotel and immediately this flashy businessman falls unconscious like a concrete block into his bed only to wake up from a deep sleep the next day.

The plan to play the role of bustling businessman in the wild nightlife until late at night falls apart. And in his dreams he left behind many beautiful wench disappointed in the many bars and discos that Chiang Mai is rich.

- To be continued -