meeting a Dukun

Needing some time alone, I made my way to a place on the rocky coastline, where I knew I was unlikely to be disturbed from my thoughts. I had been unable to practice Silat for a full week now, due to injuries received at the last training session. The bruises had cleared up but I still found it difficult to sleep, and walking anywhere was uncomfortable. Still, I needed to get moving, to hear the sound of the ocean, to recharge my senses, and reconnect with the world around me.

 I was looking for something, but I was unsure of what I might find. I felt slightly anxious with anticipation of the unknown. The ocean breeze took some of the heat out of the overhead sun, cooling my skin as I traversed the rocks, spraying me with fine droplets as I continued making my way to an area where tall pines grew amongst the papaya trees. 

A thin figure of a man emerged from the ocean ahead of me, and walked across the rocks in my direction, leaving a trail of water after him. His skin was dark brown from the sun, his hair was cropped close to his skull, and he wore no decorations or jewellery. The most striking characteristic about him was his blue eyes, rare in someone from this part of the world. 

He smiled faintly as he approached me, and stuck out his hand, offering the traditional greeting of peace. His grip was strong, like he didn’t want to let go of my hand. I matched his grip, unsure at first if it was a trap, thinking maybe he wanted to take advantage of me here on the rocks. Gripping his hand I felt an unexpected level of awareness. There was something familiar about him yet also something slightly unnerving. Perhaps it was only his blue eyes I thought, yet I was reluctant to drop my guard. He seemed to notice my hesitation, and cautioned me to be careful in such a way that I was left wondering what exactly he meant. Then he left go of my hand and wished me peace. The waves pounded the rocky shoreline, spraying us both with salt water.

I continued on my way, now and again looking over my shoulder to make sure I was not being followed, and settled down on a flat rock under the pines to watch the sunset. Two great sea eagles had been perched in the uppermost branches of the pines, and as I arrived they took off. 

One of them headed out to sea, the other one headed towards the volcano. Beautiful creatures they were, floating effortlessly until they were soon out of sight. I kept my eyes fixed on the horizon, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of them, and was startled when a shadow fell across me. How long had I been staring into space I wondered. Standing silently before me with his back to the sun was the man who I had met earlier. He carried in his hands a small bundle wrapped in blue plastic, was holding it like it contained something precious.

He again offered me a greeting of peace, and I returned it to him, motioning him to sit down. The truth was he had caught me off guard, in a moment of utter relaxation. He laughed, as if he had just read my thoughts, and offered me a cigarette. I noticed he had only two left so I pulled out my pack, the local currency here, and gave him some. He took two, but did not light up.

He opened his blue bundle and from where I was sitting I could see that it contained a bundle of small notes, a shirt, and what appeared to be a kris dagger. 

I became alarmed at the sight of the knife, but the man smiled and offered me the fist of money instead. I was confused, but the man only grinned and started speaking to me rapidly in a mix of English and Bahasa Indonesia. I declined his offer of money, by now intrigued about this unusual character before me.

Although I could not comprehend everything he said, I understood enough to know he was speaking about my past. I had an uncanny feeling about this man, he seemed to know everything about me and we had only just met. He laughed, and told me to me careful. He reminded me of the time I was almost trapped in the back alleys of an African city and was forced to fight, a story I had not shared with anyone. He mentioned the machete and the four men who tried to rob me on a separate occasion, thousands of miles ago. How could this man, a homeless man with little or no formal education, know such a thing had occurred? He continued speaking to me, reminding me about my family, and about places of significance which I had visited in the past. I was rooted to the spot, wondering what would he refer to next?   
He told me I had two spirit protectors. It was not the first time I had heard this. The sea eagles had returned, and now hovered above me, as if to emphasize the moment. The man smiled, his blue eyes lighting at the edges.

Throughout, he kept repeating his advice to me to be careful, making me repeat the words until he was satisfied. Although I knew by now that this man would not physically harm me, the uneasy feeling in my gut refused to go away. I kept thinking of the kris knife in his bag, wondering what it was for. Could it be used for more than just self defence, I wondered?

I recalled the story I had been told of an ancient Silat master who was deemed to be invincible when in the possession of a kris blade. It could be that this man believed such a story also, black majik flourished in these parts, and the signs were everywhere for those who had eyes to see. 

The man was most likely a dukun, I thought, a shaman. He looked into my eyes and smiled, nodded, and held out his hand. He asked me to be careful, said the word “parang” and made a chopping motion to the back of his neck. We shook hands, he wished me peace, and walked off over the rocks carrying his bundle with him. After watching the sundown, I slowly and carefully made my way home. I didn’t mention the encounter with the dukun to anyone.

Two days later, the dukun unexpectedly appeared at the door to the office. He was smiling slightly as he asked the people inside for some spare change, but he was looking directly at me. His eyes twinkled, and he reminded me to be careful. He didn’t need to say anything to me, for the message was clear. Once I pass through the doorway, there can be no going back. The parang could be everywhere and anywhere. The shaman wished us all peace, and looked directly into my eyes once more before walking away. I never saw him again.

The Silat Master part1 - The meeting

I could have ignored the text message but I was drawn to reply by something unknown and deep within me.The words were out of my mouth before I realised what they meant, which happens after a few drinks sometimes, but the truth often manifests itself in this way.Now it had become a promise, there was no going back.

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.

close encounters of the savage kind...

The street was busy, sudden winds swirling the dust into corkscrews of opacity, covering the pedestrians with a film of beige....and that is when they approached me for the first time. 
Of course they had been studying me for quite some time before this, assessing their target, the potential victim, their prey....They made their move with practiced ease, working in tandem, communicating without words. No rush, no need to hurry, they had all day if necessary. They were friendly enough at the start...a coffee, a beer, broad smiles....always smiles...hyena, shark, cold calculations showing in the eyes, or was it desperation?
Seducing a traveller with tales of altruism and adventure, the perfect combination, left hook, right hook, subtlety and deception, finding weaknesses and gaining my confidence. They wanted to live up to my expectations, and they wanted my wallet to live up to theirs.
Swirls of dust later, I am sat in a room full of people, a table in front of me, beer bottles and ashtrays. The hypnotic bass beat from the speakers lulling me into a false sense of security. The girls dancing, beautiful, graceful, always looking to make sure I was still there, but never making eye contact...except for the unhappy looking one. She must have been new around here, or maybe she was tired of the whole charade which left her feeling empty when all was said and done. Maybe she was the only one with a shred of decency left. She was, however, afraid of the pack leader.
What started off as a beautiful illusion of tranquility began to rust at the edges, right before my eyes. The illusion was quick to change, as illusions are wont to do. The demons made themselves known to me in their new guises. As surely as we will meet again, I knew that I had met them before.
The blink of an eye, the light shining on a girl's hair, the flash of a shooting star, the bubble bursting in the stream. How long does it take before you realise something has happened that you did not expect? A split second? a circular motion of time?
Agression then, voices raised, music stopped. The girls left in a hurry, on some silent command from the pack leader. The unhappy looking one the last to leave. My time had come to be tested. My bubble had burst. My stream of conciousness was laden with rotting logs floating from the dark recesses of my mind to the table in front of me, the air filled with the smoke of strong herbs and the smell of hard liquor. And the stench of greed coming from the now three men, more voices outside, talk of knives and dollars, agitated twitchings and restless spirits. All the while the smiles flashed in my direction, each one slicing me like a machete through vine leaves. Leaving me naked and bleeding, empty and doomed. Or so they would prefer. I had different ideas.
A sudden whirlwind, the trigger to move, and busting out into the wilderness of their yard only to find the way barred by weapons....long stout wooden poles...a 6inch nail jutting from each...reality bites.
Take two steps forward, and one back. A weapon extending from my arms, part of me now, my survival. The smiles rapidly fading, the hackles risen...A whirlwind of emotion in their eyes, specked with fear. They try to circle me, to turn it back around, the dollars slipping from their grasp, but my back is to the gate, breathing deep and slow. The first one to move is the first one to suffer. Where was the instigator? I take the strongest one out of his comfort zone and into my sphere. Welcome to my nightmare. Don't worry, it's just another dream. Life can be like that. A fraction of time taken to blink, and it's all over. Eyes glazed over then, staring at the sun through a swirl of dust, unseeing, too late to change his mind. The others back out of range, and are coralled between the outside wall of their house and their own stumbling efforts at retreat. They started all of this...chose the wrong victim. They made me into what I had then become. There was neither love nor pity. 
The weapon scythes through the air, traversing a deadly arc, culminating in the neck of the jackal on the edge of the group. Dropping him like a fallen tree. Changing forever his destiny, and mine also. The terror shone in the eyes of the others, all except for the older one. His eyes remained like two black stones lying in stagnant pools of scum, a faint flicker of twisted mirth around the edges. This one knew something the others could never fathom. I had taught him this, and had learned a costly lesson about life and death in the process.

I had made my escape. There will come another time. I can only hope to be prepared. I will leave it be for now. The path does not end....