I could have ignored the
text message but I was drawn to reply by something unknown and
deep within me.
My curiosity was piqued,
the sense of danger lurking in the shadows of my restless spirit was more than
enough to subdue the boredom that comes with the oppressive heat and humidity.
The ghosts came to me that
night, not to disturb or terrify me, but only to make me aware of their
presence in my vicinity, as if I could forget. I could hear their breathing
echoing mine, mocking me in a childish way, keeping me from deep slumber and
reminding me of the promise made the day before. When I awoke, they came with
me, allowing me to perform my chores for the day, always keeping the promise in
the forefront of my mind.
It was impossible to be
ready, for I had no idea what to expect, but I was at the appointed place at
the right time. The promises had been made, by the soul of one artist to
another. It was time. A young man on a motorcycle arrived, speaking a local
dialect I did not understand. His eyes showed me he was a messenger, and I had
no choice but to trust him.
I jumped on the back, put
on a spare helmet, and steadied my nerves against the rush of adrenalin that
comes with the experience of driving in a pandemonium of city traffic.
Truck horns were blaring,
smoke and diesel fumes filled my nostrils, animal noises and strange dialects
mixing with the sights of the exotic seascape sped by, as the sun set on the
Indian Ocean.
Ahead of us, the traffic
slowed momentarily, as a man on the street lay clutching his chest, his arm
hanging useless at his side, his moped broken beyond repair. A crowd of
passers-by dragged him out of the way so the mayhem could continue unabated.
A spattering of warm rain
wept from the skies as the first thunderclap cut through the clamour and echoed
around the city. Weaving through the crowded rush hour with the light fading
rapidly, we took to the backstreets as the deluge began in earnest.
Soon, we were leaving the
city far behind, coconut trees dominating the skyline, passing through areas of
rice paddies, monkeys screeching from the treetops as we sped through small
villages, the traffic thinning now as the rain poured through the darkness.
I could no longer see
where we were going or what lay ahead, as the rain beat off my visor, obscuring
my vision. I trusted in the skill of the driver as he navigated potholes and
flooded sections of the road with a deftness that was uncanny. Surely he must
be a local.
The rain eased up somewhat
and through the dim headlight of the motorbike I was able to make out sections
of the road just ahead.
Suddenly a black chicken flashed
in front of the bike, the driver reacting to avoid impact as we slewed this way
and that, narrowly missing a rambutan tree, and barely keeping our balance.
Less than a minute later
we arrived at a rattan house, and pulled abruptly into a covered area
containing two ancient motorbikes, a battered timeworn sofa, a small table and
a few fold-up chairs. There were lights on but I saw nobody there to greet us.
I removed my helmet as the
driver gestured towards the direction of the sofa. I looked around again and there
he was, dark and lean, sitting cross legged on the sofa, having materialised as
if by majik out of thin air, wearing long black trousers, black shirt, black
hat, the uniform of one who practices silat. His black eyes glittering brightly
in the dim light like starlight reflecting across the ocean, diamonds in a
coalmine, a feeling of power emanating from him like a tiger ready to pounce, a
faint smile twinkling at the corners of his mouth.
The more one knows the less
visible one becomes, I thought. The ghosts laughed in unison. I was face to face
with the Silat Master. I bowed deeply. The lesson had already begun.
