Seen and Unseen ; The lesson

 

I could easily have ignored the text message, pretend I’d never seen it, and they would not have bothered me any further, but I had made a promise the night before and there could be no turning back now. 

It had started as a casual conversation in a bar with some of the locals. A few drinks were had, some snacks shared, news discussed. I don’t know if it was the boredom, the heat, or just the curiosity that drew me in, but when that word was mentioned, half whispered, it pulled at me, hinting at promises of unknown depths. Sometimes it’s better to stumble onto a truth, barge your way in to it and find out what it’s all about. It could turn out to be nothing much, or a nightmare scenario, at the wrong place at the wrong time, but there was only one way to find out.

At first they were reluctant, trying to dissuade me, laugh it off. I could see, by the movement of their eyes and the nervous lighting of clove cigarettes, that this was a serious matter to them. A foreigner had no place meddling here. There was talk of spirits, and not all of it was good. That was all I needed at the time to get me going, like a sort of challenge, a double dare if you like.  I was determined to investigate further, throw myself into the thick of it with reckless abandon. After all, I had nothing left to lose, and I can be annoyingly persistent when the mood takes me. Just for the hell of it, I thought. Just because you said I couldn’t. I promised that I was sincere, I meant what I said.

The way those guys were speaking about him though, there was a definite sense of danger, as if something was lurking in the shadows. I could sense the mix of respect and fear when they spoke about him, like the wisps of smoke than trailed from the tops of the volcanoes and silencing the dark jungle slopes below. Sensing my stubbornness they eventually relented and said they would text me tomorrow, and we left it at that. 

 

The ghosts came to me that night in my dreams, 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 as I slept fitfully, mocking me in a childish way, keeping me from deep slumber and reminding me of the promise made earlier.When I awoke, they came with me, invisible, allowing me to perform my chores for the day, yet always keeping the promise in the forefront of my mind.

Now here I am, waiting for someone to arrive and take me to an unknown destination, to begin I know not what. Soon I would meet him myself and I have to admit, I was intensely curious.It was impossible to be fully prepared, for I had no idea what to expect. Had I known the long path that lay ahead, beginning with this first step, I might have faltered, it’s hard to say.

In any case, I was at the appointed place and now it was time. A young man on a motorcycle detached himself from the swarms of riders on the busy thoroughfare and pulled up in front of me. He offered me a greeting, 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 adrenaline that comes with driving in the pandemonium of city traffic.

Truck horns blaring, voices shouting, 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 began to set on the Indian Ocean. Rush of warm air as we swerved and weaved across the city, joining the thousands trying to get away from the oppressive heat and squalor, into the welcoming darkness.

Ahead of us the traffic slowed momentarily, and I glimpsed through the hustle a man lying on the street, clutching his chest. His arm hung useless at his side, his scooter broken beyond repair. A crowd of passers-by were trying to drag him out of the way so the chaotic flow of vehicles could continue unabated. 

Now a spattering of warm rain wept from the skies, dampening the diesel fumes. The first mighty thunderclaps cut through the din and echoed around the outskirts of the city as we took to the backstreets. With the sun dipping low and fading, the deluge began in earnest.Soon we were leaving the city far behind, and through the sheets of rain I could just make out coconut trees dominating the skyline, then more padi fields flanked by jungle. Monkeys screeched from the treetops as we sped through small villages, and the traffic sparse now as the rain poured earnestly through the darkness.

For a while I could no longer see where we were going or what lay ahead, as the rain beat off my visor, obscuring my vision. I had to trust implicitly in the skill of the driver as he navigated potholes and flooded sections of the road with a deftness that was uncanny. Surely we can’t have much further to go, I thought, wondering what lay in store for me. Somehow I felt safe inside, despite the obvious dangers. I sensed the cackle of the ghosts as the rain eased up somewhat abruptly, and through the dim headlight of the motorbike I was able to make out sections of the potholed road up ahead. Suddenly, in a burst of adrenaline, a black chicken flashed in front of us. The driver reacted to avoid impact as we slewed this way and that, barely keeping our balance and narrowly missing a rambutan tree.

 

I breathed a sigh of relief when, less than five minutes later, we arrived at a rattan house in front of a cluster of bamboos, a fish farm and some padi fields.We freewheeled under a covered garage area containing two ancient motorbikes, a battered timeworn sofa, a small table, and a few fold-up chairs. There were light bulbs glowing and in the dim light I saw nobody there to greet us. I was removing my helmet when the driver gestured urgently, pointing with his chin towards the direction of the sofa.

I looked again and there he was, dark and lean, sitting cross legged on the sofa, looking like he had just materialised out of thin air as if by majik, looking like he had been sitting there forever. He wore long black trousers, a black shirt, black hat and a sarong draped casually over his shoulder. It was the uniform of one who practices Silat.

The more one knows the less visible one becomes, I thought.

Subconsciously the ghosts laughed in unison. I took a deep breath. I was face to face with a Silat Master. His jet black eyes glittered brightly in the dim light like starlight reflecting across the ocean, diamonds in a coalmine, and a feeling of power emanated from him like that of a tiger ready to pounce, a faint smile twinkling at the corners of his mouth.

I bowed deeply. Exhaled.

The lesson had already begun.

 

Seen and Unseen; Message from a Shaman

 

The following account is a recollection of an encounter with a Dukun, an Indonesian Shaman, as I traveled alone in Sumatra, and is a memory I have been unable to erase from my mind.

Occasionally an event occurs that is understated yet so profoundly altering that it becomes part of who I am, something inescapable and utterly transformative, causing me to question the very essence of the person who I thought I was. This is one of those rare events.

 For reasons I won’t go into now I left my homeland many years ago, feeling compelled to seek out adventures and challenges on the other side of the planet, and after some time meandering around South East Asia I found myself in West Sumatra, a place where magic and superstition blur into the reality of daily existence.

It was a place of constant danger and wonder, not only because of the chains of volcanoes which smoked constantly, threateningly, or the frequent tremors of earthquakes amidst the setting of primal jungles and dramatic coastlines, but because of the feeling of some dark and ancient force which emanated from the very fabric of the surrounding landscape. There was power stemming from the very land itself, the forests and volcanoes seeming nothing more than mere manifestations of what lay unseen beneath.

 Following a series of trials and challenges, I had been accepted as an apprentice to a Guru, a Master of the mystical warrior arts of this region. My apprenticeship as a student was a fascinating and challenging experience which required daily training and meditation, familiarisation with many aspects of Indonesian life, from the styles, techniques and weapons of their martial arts to the customs, dialects, music and folklore which were intertwined in their culture.

 

I need not delve into this in any detail now as it warrants a remembrance of its own which I will provide in good time, but suffice it to say that magic and mysticism have always existed in these lands long before the arrival of any of the well-known religions of today, and there is a general belief among the general populace that ancient forces and spirits abound and interact freely in a multitude of ways with the realm of daily life.

As a product of western scientific education, I initially disregarded these beliefs as folk tales and mere superstition. However, as time passed and I became more familiar with the customs and traditions of these remarkable people and the astonishing landscape they coexisted with, I felt more inclined to agree with their beliefs in the supernatural forces which inhabited not only the features of the landscape but members of the population themselves.

 

Although the people of West Sumatra were most welcoming to foreigners, I had entered a very different world when I undertook my apprenticeship, and no quarter was given by the locals when it came to tests of martial skill. Unfortunately, due to injuries received in a recent bout with a neighboring village, I had been unable to practice effectively for almost a full week now. The bruises from my encounter with the local challengers had not yet cleared up, and I had some difficulty in sleeping at night. Walking anywhere was a slow and uncomfortable experience.

It was because of my injuries that my Guru suggested I take some time away from the village, to contemplate my studies and reflect on the path I found myself on right now.

 

There was an important gathering of village elders planned for the coming days and with some local chiefs feeling unease at the presence of a foreigner, especially one who was learning their traditional arts, I suspected he may have had other motives for suggesting I take a break.

Having undergone months of rigorous training, and being granted little free time to contemplate my progress to date, I decided to escape the mountainous terrain of rice paddies and jungles for a few days, heading to the rugged coastline for some cool sea air and some well-earned rest.

In any case I welcomed the respite from the seemingly endless days and nights of learning the languages and customs, and the relentless training, interspersed with regular competitions between local villages which tested the skill and strength of warriors both male and female alike. I was the only foreigner in the region, and one of very few who had attempted to learn their mystical arts.

However, when the opportunity came I didn’t hesitate to get moving as best I could, eagerly anticipating the sound of the ocean, feeling the need to recharge my senses, and reconnect with the world around me.

 

Taking a long journey by minibus on the treacherous mountain roads I found myself mesmerised by the smoke coming from the distant chains of volcanoes, and the diverse species of monkeys and birds which scattered into the dense forest on either side at the approach of the vehicle.

I was reminded of the danger and beauty of this place by sudden tremors which startled the passengers and sent a flock of parrots bursting into the air above us like a cloud of living rainbows. Such tremors were frequent and one never knew if they would result in a powerful earthquake or if they were merely the rumbling of the mountain spirits.

 

Arriving at my destination many hours later, a small remote coastal fishing village far from any tourist trail, and needing some time alone after the confines of the crowded minibus, I decided to make my way to a visible outcrop on the rocky coastline where I knew I was unlikely to be disturbed from my meditation.

 

 

 

 I suppose you could say I was looking for something, perhaps a reason for being in this strange and intense place, but I was unsure of what I might find, and I must confess I felt slightly anxious in anticipation of the unknown.

It was always like this, I thought, reflecting on the countries I had visited and the experiences gained over many years of solo travel. One never knew what lay around the next corner, but the way to receive the unknown was to observe the subtle signs, remaining open to whatever may happen.

 

Walking away from the village and its curious inhabitants I felt the refreshing sensation of the sea air on my skin, by now bronzed from months of outdoor exposure. The ocean breeze took some of the heat out of the overhead sun, cooling my skin as I traversed the rocks, and spraying me with fine droplets as I painfully clambered my way to an outcrop where tall pines stood out amongst the papaya trees. 

 

 

As I scrambled my way along the rocky shore I became aware of the hypnotic voice of the ocean, the regular sounds of the gentle waves breaking, that instantly recognisable rhythm of nature that never fails to soothe the nerves and calm the spirit.

 

I took a pause to appreciate the moment and as I did I noticed ahead of me a thin figure of a man emerging from the ocean. He seemed to materialise out of the water, from a place that didn’t seem like a typical swimming spot. Dripping wet he walked slowly and deliberately across the jagged rocks towards my direction, leaving a trail of water after him. His skin was dark brown from the sun, hair cropped close to his skull, and he wore no decorations or jewellery, just a pair of shorts. As he came closer I noticed he was middle aged, but the most striking characteristic about him was his glittering blue eyes, quite rare in someone from this part of the world. 

 

 

He smiled faintly as he approached me, and when he came close enough he stuck out his wet hand, offering the traditional greeting of peace. Salaam.

His grip was firm and I could feel the internal energy emanating from his body. It felt like he didn’t want to let go of my hand. I matched his grip, unsure at first if it was a trap, wondering if perhaps he wanted to take advantage of me here on the rocks. A solo traveler from another land would seem like an easy target to some. Then I relaxed somewhat as, still gripping his hand, I felt an unexpected level of calm awareness from his body.

Peering into those bright blue eyes I felt there was something almost familiar about him yet also something slightly unnerving. Perhaps it was only his eye colour I thought. I was still reluctant to drop my guard.He seemed to notice my hesitation, smiling broadly as he cautioned me to be careful, in such a way that I was left wondering what exactly he meant. What care needed to be taken, I wondered. Was he a danger to me after all?

Then, still smiling, he let go of my hand and again wished me peace. At the same instant a large wave pounded the rocky shoreline, causing a booming sound and spraying us both with salt water.

 

 

 

Bowing stiffly in acknowledgement I continued on my way, now and again looking back over my shoulder to make sure I was alone, not wanting to be followed. The thin figure of the man made his way lightly over the rocks towards the fishing village I had come from. He didn’t look back, and soon he had disappeared from my sight behind some large boulders.Upon reaching my destination I settled down on a flat rock under the pines to watch the sunset.

Two great sea eagles had been perched in a nest in the uppermost branches of the pines, and as I arrived they took flight. 

They were magnificent creatures, and I felt a sense of wonder at witnessing their ease of movement through the air. One of them headed out to sea, towards the distant horizon, the other one headed towards a large smoking volcano jutting out of the distant forests to my right, both floating effortlessly on the warm currents until they were soon out of sight.

I kept my eyes fixed on the horizon, feeling utter relaxation at the sound of the waves gently breaking, still hoping to catch another glimpse of one of the eagles, and was suddenly 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 low sun was the blue eyed man who I had encountered earlier. He was dressed now in a batik shirt and carried in his hands a small bundle wrapped in blue plastic, holding it like it contained something precious.

 

He smiled, offering me a greeting of peace yet again, 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, eyes twinkling as if he had just read my thoughts, and fishing a crumpled cardboard packet from his shirt pocket he offered me a cigarette. I relaxed somewhat, not sensing any immediate threat, then noticed he had only two cigarettes left so I pulled out my packet, the local currency here, and offered him one. He took two, but curiously did not light up.

 

Then he carefully undid his blue plastic bundle, and from where I was sitting I could see the contents; a small wad of money, a batik sarong, and wrapped within it what appeared to be an antique Keris knife. 

 

 

Without showing any visible emotion, I became somewhat alarmed internally at the sight of the Keris knife. Having seen these curious looking wavy blades used by the Masters in ritual performances I understood they were feared and respected for their mystical power. Many of these blades were forged using poison, so even a scratch from one of them would be enough to kill a man. Registering my reaction nonetheless, the man smiled and offered me the fist of notes. I politely declined the curious offer of money, by now intrigued about this unusual character before me.

 

Seeing my confusion the man grinned and then started speaking to me rapidly in a mix of English and Bahasa Minang. I understood enough of the local language but still it seemed as if he were speaking in tongues, and his words were almost indecipherable although I could somehow ascertain their meaning quite clearly. In any case I understood enough to know that he was speaking about my past. He referenced specific details of my previous life that he could have had no possible means of knowing about. Astonished, I listened intently as he spoke to me, his blue eyes twinkling in the twilight. Incredible, I thought, feeling a shiver run through me.

 

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. Then he reminded me of the time I was trapped in the back alleys of an East African city and was forced to fight for my survival, a story with a bitter ending which I had not shared with anyone. He then mentioned the machete and the four men who tried to rob me in North Africa thousands of miles ago.

How could this apparently homeless man, with little or no formal education, know such things had occurred?

He continued speaking to me, smiling, 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 he might refer to next, and where was this conversation going.    
He told me I had three spirit protectors, relatives long deceased. It was not the first time I had heard this and it resonated deeply with me. Then he told me to be careful of the machete, making a chopping motion to the back of his neck with one hand, the other hand pointing a long finger in my direction. Could he be some sort of a Shaman, I wondered?

 

Hearing a cry above me I realised the sea eagles had returned, and now hovered above us as if to emphasize the moment. The man smiled, his blue eyes lighting at the edges.

 

 

 

 

As the eagles settled into their nesting site, he repeated his advice to me to be careful. Touching his neck with a chopping motion, he warned me again of the machete that awaits me, making me repeat the words until he was satisfied I understood.

Then, with an air of finality, he carefully replaced his meager belongings into the plastic bundle and, using a piece of string from his pocket, he bound it tightly and fastened it to the top of his head.

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 Keris knife in his bundle, wondering what it was for, but I didn't dare to ask him. It was unlikely he needed it for self-defense I thought, since he didn’t keep it within easy reach. Could it be used for some sort of arcane ritual, I wondered.

 

I recalled a story I had been told by my Guru about an ancient Master from a remote village in the highlands who was deemed to be invincible when in the possession of a magical Keris blade. This Keris blade, with its multiple curves and engraved symbols, was crafted using ancient techniques and incantations passed down through generations of Masters. Legend says it contained the spirit of a powerful Djinn who could be controlled using little known occult rituals and dark practices which were known by exponents of Silat Ghaib. The Silat Master had a powerful opponent, a wizard who practiced  the darkest form of the ancient martial art, known for summoning entities and malevolent elemental forces which existed long before any Islamic influences came to these shores. The wizard was unable to overcome the Silat Master who, being a powerful magician in his own right, was impervious to the dark arts, so he used his malevolent power against the Masters family, cursing them and bringing bad luck to their lives.

Apparently the Master summoned the Djinns power and used it to send the Keris knife floating through the forest after dark until it found the hut of his adversary, killing him while he lay sleeping, embedding itself deep into his heart, before returning to the Master in the dead of night.

As I have mentioned, black majik flourished in these parts, and the signs were everywhere for those who had eyes to see. It could be that this man believed such a story also, and since he had already demonstrated his knowledge of specific events in my life for which there was no rational explanation, I thought it possible that he may have other abilities beyond my comprehension, maybe even a practitioner of the feared techniques of Silat Ghaib. I shivered internally at the thought.

The man was most likely a Dukun, I thought, an Indonesian Shaman. He looked into my eyes and smiled, nodded as if he had just read my mind, and held out his hand to me.

As I grasped his hand he asked me to be careful, said the word “parang”, which was the local word for a machete, and once again made a chopping motion to the back of his neck. Satisfied his message was clear, he shook my hand and wished me peace, before walking off over the rocks, disappearing into the golden light that foretold the setting of the sun.

 

Watching the sundown alone, seeing the fishing trawlers return to safe harbour and the lights of the villages twinkle to life on the slopes of the distant volcano I decided to slowly and carefully traverse the rugged coastline and make my way back to the village, still lost in thought about what had just happened.

 

 

For a small fee I was able to procure some rudimentary lodgings for the night outside the hut of a fisherman and his family and, having partaken of a simple meal of rice and fish with them, I settled myself into a hammock between two coconut trees. I didn’t mention my encounter with the Dukun to anyone, but the feeling that remained with me as I restlessly shifted about in my hammock was weighing heavily on my mind, impossible to forget.

 

Two days later, the Dukun unexpectedly appeared at door to the fisherman’s hut. He was smiling slightly as he asked the family inside for some spare change and, being a generous people by nature they duly obliged, rummaging around in some jars for a few spare coins to give him. I sat silently on the floor of the hut trying to remain inconspicuous, observing the activity, then noticed the Dukun was looking directly at me. His eyes twinkled, and wordlessly he reminded me to be careful. He didn’t need to say anything to me, for the message was clearly understood.

Once I pass through the doorway, there can be no going back, I thought. The parang could be everywhere and anywhere. 

Then the Dukun wished us all peace, and his piercing blue eyes looked directly into mine once more before he turned and walked away. 

I never saw him again.