Her Room

Travel Story by Marianne Crone

Java, Indonesia

After a few days in Jakarta, I wish to escape the chaos, the pollution and the traffic. I want to stand on the beach, feel the sand swirl between my toes, smell the salty air, taste the spray on my lips, feel the wind blow through my hair. I want to hear the waves break, look at the horizon and know there is nothing between me and the South Pole but this vast expanse of ocean.

I once read that the Indian Ocean grabs people and drags them deep to the ocean floor, but I dismiss this as nonsense. Commonsense tells me that these people must have been bad swimmers. So I decide to go by public minibus to Pelabuhanratu, a fishing village in south-west Java.

The passengers sit on two facing benches, folded in knee to knee and head to ceiling, the children squashed in the middle. I am wedged in between a prize-fighting cock in a wicker coop that dwarfs its proprietor and a well-proportioned mother with two children, one of them half-sitting on my lap. Bulky carrier bags take up what little floor space there is.

I count at least five cardboard boxes all held together with string, and one jerry can which spills its greasy contents at every bump in the road. On top of this jumble, my bag balances precariously because I can't steady it, as I am unable to move even my little finger. At each pothole we bump our heads against the ceiling. At each bend we are pushed and pulled like an accordion played by an enthusiastic musician.

"A sauna," says the young money collector wiping his brow, clearly addressing me.

I frown.

"Java is a sauna."

He is right. Heat and humidity bear heavy upon us. We stop at kampungs on the way. At each of these tiny villages the bus spits out a mouthful of passengers. Gently swaying palm trees whisper in the slightest breeze. Paddy fields in irregular patterns like spider's webs stretch to the horizon. People walk bare-foot along the roadside, balancing bunches of kindling wood on their heads. The sun beats down.

"Samudra Beach Hotel!" The money collector puts my bag in the moist-green grass and I jump out and walk towards a square, concrete building.

The receptionist gives me my key, leans forward and whispers: "Room 310. Next to her room."

"Her room?"

He does not answer my question.

"Don't wear green," he warns me.

I gape at him and think: he's not dictating what I should or shouldn't wear, and walk off slightly piqued.

My room is the standard hotel room with a double bed, a wardrobe that is empty except for the coat hangers and a plastic bag for my laundry. Under a ceiling-high mirror stands a writing table on it a television with CNN, a sewing kit, ballpoints with the hotel's logo, three sheets of writing paper and two envelopes. In one of the drawers there is a plasticized warning: 'What To Do In Emergencies'. There is an arrow with the word 'kiblat' painted on the ceiling. I have often seen these. They point to a window or a door and I take them to indicate the emergency exit, but this one points to a blind wall. I am dumbfounded but my dictionary solves the mystery. 'Kiblat' means towards Mecca.

Back in the lounge I sit under a slowly revolving fan. It swirls the stagnant heat without cooling me. I decide to go for a walk on the beach. Grains of sand sparkle like tiny mirrors. Friendly waves ripple on the sand, washing white coral ashore as crabs scuttle sideways.

"Where are you going?" a young woman in sarong asks me.

She does not want to know where I am going. It is the standard phrase when meeting someone.

"Jalan, Jalan, going for a walk," I answer.

Satisfied with my reply, she continues her walk, elegantly swaying her narrow hips.

A sudden gust of rising wind makes me shiver. Bigger waves criss-cross over the sand. The wind picks up. Pounding breakers hit the shore, each encroaching more territory. Dark clouds gather. I seek shelter in a 'warung kopi', a beach shack café whose owner pours me some coffee from a thermos flask. He then invites me to try the spiced cakes kept in square plastic containers with screw tops against invading ants.

Heavy drops of rain explode on the corrugated tin roof. Soon the grooves are flooded and torrents of water plunge down. Claps of thunder rend the air. Finally this curtain of rain is pushed aside and a rainbow appears. Then a patch of blue sky and the sun burns away the thin film of mist which hangs over the paddy fields. Tiny raindrops clinging on to the leaves of the rice plants sparkle in the white sunlight and plop down one by one. On my way back to the hotel I tread a path strewn with frangipani flowers, and their sweet smell accompanies me.

"You can now see her room," says the receptionist when I ask for my key.

Puzzled I follow him to the third floor and leave my shoes in front of room 308. Subdued light shines through the slits in the blinds. The room is pleasantly cool. Gowns and robes, in all shades of green, hang in neat rows next to the door. Her garments. On the dressing table half-full bottles of shampoo and scent, hairbrushes, combs and a vase with yellow flowers. There is a green duvet on the bed, a night table with a built-in 1960s radio, playing soft music, a little bowl of rice and flower petals, offerings to propitiate her. On the wall hangs a picture of a young woman with downcast eyes, a billowing, green ocean all around her.

"Nyai Loro Kidul" he says, pointing at the painting. "D'you know her story?"

I shake my head.

"She's the Queen of the South Seas. She was so very beautiful that she was banned from the Royal Palace because the King's concubines couldn't stand her beauty. She then started roaming and finally came here to the ocean where she heard mermaids singing."

We step on to the balcony and he points at a promontory.

"She didn't want to live any longer," I say, guessing.

He nods and continues: ''But when she jumped she didn't drown. She took possession of the seas and everyone fears her, fishermen most, because she drags them down to the bottom of the ocean, her love nest. She controls the elements and she makes storms rage. Green is her favourite colour.''

I look at him, grave.

The sudden gust of wind, the swirling sea crashing around the rocks, the pounding waves and I look at the green T-shirt I have been wearing all day.

Read more about the author of this story:
Marianne Crone