With my heart, body, and mind in this state of freedom I sat in the corner of the tram. There were no comfortable trams like this in Surabaya, traveling on steel rails, with a brass bell to chase away the sleepiness. Third class was crammed. First class, where I sat, was rather empty. I didn’t have much with me: an old suitcase, dented in many places; a bag; and a woman’s portrait in a wine-red velvet cover wrapped again in calico.
The tram moved along smoothly. The aftereffects of the ship left my body plunging up and down as if I were riding a thousand waves. There’s talk that trams will soon be pulled along by electricity! How could electricity possibly pull a tram along?
As it left the port the tram seemed to become lost in swampland, with only clumps of forest and jungle here and there. The air was pregnant with the mustiness of rotting leaves. Monkeys hung from the vines and branches, untroubled by the clanging bell. A few of them tumbled happily along. One even pointed at us with a branch. They were, perhaps, all conspiring to examine me especially, and now, in their own language, were crying out: That’s him, Minke, the “modern man”! Yes, that’s him, sitting there in the corner by himself. That one, with the beginnings of a mustache, but his chin still bare. Yes, that’s him all right, the Native who prefers European clothes, who carries on like a sinyo. He even travels in “white class”—first class.
Ah, that must be the Golden Star Villa, famous because of all the stories about the slaves who toiled there in the time of the Dutch East Indies Company. Perhaps one day I’ll have time to write their story.
The villa was the only thing decorating the swamps. Everything else was boring, nothing worth describing. Yet it was these swamps that had swallowed up one third of the Company’s soldiers when they first arrived to occupy the area. The swamp has sided with the Natives for a long time now. On the other hand, it was this same swamp that killed sixty thousand Natives as they built Betawi. Most had been prisoners of war. And the glorious Captain Bontekoe, who began his rise to fame transporting sand and rock from Tangerang to Betawi, had also been almost killed by swamp fever.
“What is this place called?” I asked the Eurasian conductor in Malay.
His eyes blinked open, startled by this extra burden: “Ancol.”
“Can the sailboats out there go right into Betawi?” I asked in Dutch.
“Of course, sir, if they go up the Ciliwung.” He moved along, selling his tickets.
Then the tram entered the city. The streets were just as narrow as in Surabaya, made from the same whitish-yellow stone. Old buildings, standing from the days of the Company, lined the streets. The streets were lit by gas. Another fairy tale, that Betawi had begun to asphalt its streets. Just more talk. And how many such fairy tales are told in this world?
The city of Betawi! So this is the capital of the Indies, built by Governor-General Jan Pieterz Coen at the cost of sixty thousand Native lives. Who was it who worked out that figure? This is the city that was attacked and laid siege to by Sultan Agung in 1629. My Dutch school friends used to taunt me during our history lessons. How many soldiers did Sultan Agung have? Two hundred thousand? How many Company soldiers defended the city? Five hundred! The Dutch had cannon. But so did Agung! How come your sultan’s army was beaten, then? Yes, there’s no doubt about it. They were defeated. That’s the reality. The Dutch have controlled everything since then. Even now! Even though Coen himself died during the defense of the city and was never to see his homeland again.
Two hundred thousand soldiers, my friends had said. With cannon too. I believe Agung had cannon. But two hundred thousand men! Who can disprove it? But neither could they produce real evidence to back their claim. Ahh, that’s enough of thinking like this, or I’ll die of frustration!
Betawi was not as busy as Surabaya. And so clean. Big wooden rubbish bins stood in appropriate places, and the people placed their garbage there. Not like Surabaya. And there were little parks everywhere, their brightly colored flowers adding a touch of festivity.
In Surabaya all you ever saw were bamboo-hut slums and fires, and rubbish everywhere.
1901. The paper I’d bought at the harbor announced that Priangan women were being sold to Singapore and Hong Kong and Bangkok. I was reminded of the past—of the Japanese prostitute Maiko’s evidence to the court in Surabaya about how much prostitutes were bought and sold for. I put away those memories. What purpose is there in dwelling on the past? The past should not become a burden if it is not also willing to be a help.
There was one interesting editorial comment—the Malay-Chinese press was refusing to use Ch. Van Ophuyzen’s new Malay spelling. We don’t use school Malay, high Malay, the press was saying. Our subscribers aren’t graduates of the state schools. We’re not going to risk bankruptcy by using such foreign spelling.
The report went on to complain about the new postal regulations obliging letter writers to use the new spelling. Trying to stop mail that used the old spelling would be like trying to hold back the sea with your bare hands, they said.
What! Why didn’t I see this headline before? Staring at me in such large print? Japan was laying claim to Sabang Island with its coal station. Was this true? And the paper’s comment: “This clown’s behavior is getting more and more out of hand.” As expected, there was also a small item about an urgently called meeting of naval personnel.
The tram moved on smoothly to the clanging of the brass bell. Betawi! Ah, Betawi! Here I am now in your center. You don’t know me yet, Betawi! But I know you. You’ve turned Ciliwung into a canal, with boats and rafts going back and forth, laden with goods from the interior. Almost like Surabaya. Your buildings are big and grand, but my spirit is bigger and grander.
It was said that the Ciliwung was once lined by a long unbroken line of sumptuous buildings. Now they had been turned into shops and makeshift workshops, mostly Chinese-owned. And in the middle of all this, I stood out as something extraordinary. I wore shoes; most others went barefoot. I wore a felt hat; most others wore bamboo destars. I wore European clothes; others wore shorts, went bare-chested, or wore pajamas.
The scenery was full of color. My heart was even brighter, full of joy. Where are you all, maids of Priangan, famed for your grace, beauty, and smooth, satin skin? I haven’t seen even one yet! Come on out of your houses! Here I am now. Where are all the Dasimas that Francis wrote about?
I could not find what I was looking for. The first-class compartment contained mostly Eurasians, with their dried-up skin and arrogant posing. Next to me sat an old Eurasian grandmother scratching her hair—probably forgotten to comb out the lice. Opposite sat a thin middle-aged man with a mustache as big as his arm. Next to him was a European Pure engrossed in his newspapers. One item caught my eye. A Dutch poet was soon to arrive and would read Dutch and Shakespearean poems at the Comedy Hall in Pasar Baru. The report said that he had just finished successful readings in the European capitals and also in South Africa.
No! I will not use this time to think about anything. I’ll just sit here soaking up the Betawi scenery.
Delmans, bendís, landaus, victorias, dog carts—all offerings from the immigrant civilization—passed each other in every street. People in all kinds of clothes rode along on their horses. Bicycles too! And no one took any notice of them! I’ll get myself a bicycle! How much would it cost? Hey, aren’t they nimble, all those bike riders! They move slowly, and can see everything as they move along.
The tram left downtown Betawi and passed through the forest and swamp on the way to Gambir. It wouldn’t be long before it stopped to spew out and suck up passengers. But still there was no face that lured me.
“Not yet,” said a Chinese man next to me. “Gambir’s quite a way. About a quarter of an hour more.”
In third class the bedlam never abated.
“What do you expect?” the man prattled on. “They’re gambling on the horses. This is your first time to Betawi? I thought so. People here, men and women, they’ve all become possessed. The races, cockfighting, dice, eve
n lizard fights. When Gambir Markets open, every gambler in the country comes. You must see Gambir Markets.”
“Are there any good shows to see in the villages?”
“There’s no one crazier about watching performances than the men of Betawi. What about Solo, you ask? No. In the villages here there is cokek, dogar, gambang kromong, and lenong. Do you like kroncong? Wah-wah, Meneer Longsor, he’s the king of kroncong. A great, thick mustache, a beautiful voice. They say he’s got real Portuguese blood. And he lives near the Portuguese Church too.”
My neighbor alighted. Prattling over, lecture over. And I myself was amazed. I’d spoken Malay quite fluently, and not only had he understood me, I had understood him too.
The Eurasian grandmother looked at me. In Malay: “Where is Sinyo from?”
“Surabaya.”
“Your first time to Betawi?”
“Yes, Oma.”
“Nah,” she said, pointing out the window. “That’s the Harmoni Club, where all the big people enjoy themselves. An old building, Nyo. Not just anyone can get in there. You’ve got to have a wage more than four hundred guilders. But even if you and I had two and a half times that, we would still never see inside.”
Four hundred guilders! And my total wealth came only to one hundred and seventy guilders and so many cents, put away over years. Anyway, what would you need four hundred guilders a month for? You could buy at least three bicycles every month! And you’d still have enough left over to live well!
Straight, solid, and large buildings everywhere, beautiful carriages, all crowded my view. My old bendi was just a heap of timber compared to these. Big broad streets like soccer fields. And the Harmoni bridge, like a wax molding, was even adorned by statues. Cupid and Venus?
“We’ve arrived at Weltevreden, Nyo. Gambir, the Betawi call it. The last stop. Where are you going from here, Nyo? Ah, that’s Koningsplein—the Betawi say Gambir Square—where the Gambir Market is set up. The tram will stop in front of the station. If you want to go on, you’ll have to change trams. Or take a delman.”
I gazed out across Koningsplein field, the pride of the Indies. About two hundred acres, beautifully tended lawns, no flowers, where the people of Betawi met and played, whether or not the Gambir Markets were on, whether or not they had money. This was, of course, their cure for the boredom of being stuck at home.
“Weltevreden! Last stop!” cried the conductor, first in Dutch, then in Malay.
Look at how big Gambir station is! A whole village under one roof. What is it that the trains off-load here? No doubt the same as in Surabaya, the prosperity and happiness of the villages—for export. And imports too—things to make you forget where you are, prosperity and happiness that have been put in hock. You must always remember the nature of the modern cities. They stand upon the traffic in happiness and prosperity.
A horse cart took me toward my destination.
Even if that were the truth about modern cities, I still considered myself a modern man, among the most advanced of the age. You don’t want to be involved with progress? Then you must accept being trampled into dust.
In my shirt pocket were two neatly folded pieces of paper—my graduation diploma and a summons from the Batavia medical school—STOVIA. Fantastic! Not just Betawi, but the medical school too must open its doors to me.
Fantastic! Incredible!
Fortress Betawi had been breached.
A school coolie took down my suitcase, bags, and Annelies’s portrait, which was wrapped in velvet. They were all placed neatly in the office.
I handed over my papers.
“Good day! We have been waiting for you a long time, sir. You should’ve been here last year, yes? Even now you’re late. One week late. I hope you understand that it is only because of your high marks that we have pardoned your tardiness.”
I was offended. I was already feeling uncomfortable. That wasn’t the way I should be spoken to. I wasn’t even studying yet, and they were already trying to box me in.
“Javanese, aren’t you?”
Even more offensive. Seeing I wasn’t answering and that my eyes were challenging him, he didn’t ask again. He pulled out a piece of paper. He wanted me to study it.
“Can you follow that?” he asked. “The rules apply from the moment you are accepted as a student, from the moment you enter the school grounds. They are mandatory.”
I looked him in the eyes again. It seemed that he understood my heart was rebelling against the rules. He hurriedly added: “I am only showing you. It’s up to you if you want to stay on as a student or not.”
I sat there on the couch, playing with the felt hat in my lap. There was only one place I was going. I knew only one destination—the School for the Education of Native Doctors. How painful all this was.
He seemed to be losing his patience and wanting to get on with his work.
“There’s a room through there.” He pointed. “Before you sign the agreement you must conform with the rules.”
Everywhere there are rules. Why are the ones here so offensive? As a Javanese, as a pupil, I must wear Javanese dress: a destar, a traditional buttoned-up top, a batik sarong, and even go barefoot! Shoes are banned!
“Do you have Javanese clothes?” he asked.
I did, except for a destar. How humiliating it would be to admit I had no destar.
“No,” I answered.
“Do you have money?” The questions were getting even more insulting. He probably wasn’t earning much more than seventy guilders a month. “If you haven’t any, we can advance you some to buy whatever you need.”
Very well. I will be a student. I took leave to go and buy what I needed.
“Your things will be safe here. We will wait for you,” he said. “About three hundred yards from here, there are markets. Senen Markets, they’re called. You’ll be able to get everything there.”
I left feeling quite annoyed. It was easy to find someone selling destars. The stall was run by an Arab. He had deep, small eyes and wore a big, thick and grimy fez. He asked a terribly high price but I got it for half that. It was probably still too expensive.
To me, this was all a form of oppression. All in order to become a doctor—a cog in the machines of the sugar industry, according to my new friend from the boat on which I first tried to leave Surabaya—I have to put up with all this trivial aggravation. Will I be able to put up with it all? Amazing, but here I was indeed carrying out these humiliating, degrading orders.
Back at the school, angry and offended, I went into the room and…farewell to you all, my European clothes! First my shoes, my trousers, my stockings. In place of my felt hat was the destar. I hadn’t worn a destar for years. My honored feet, once clothed in shoes and stockings, were now chicken claws in their nakedness. And the floor felt cold as it sucked up the warmth of my blood.
Like a bird caught in the rain, I signed my contract as a pupil at the school. I would receive an allowance often guilders a month and free board. In return, I would be bonded to work for the government, either on land or sea, for a period equal to the length of my training.
A Native office employee took me into the dormitory. The air smelled of alcohol and creosote. Across the way was the Ambon hospital, for the Ambonese soldiers and their families.
My bags had hardly touched the ground before we were surrounded by a milling group of students. On the bed opposite mine, I saw a suitcase with a newspaper clipping stuck on it that set my blood boiling.
Before I could collect my wits, a big youth examining my dented and bruised old brown tin suitcase, shouted in Indo Dutch: “Look at this! Only the rottenest village boy would bring a rotten case like this!”
He seemed to be the only one wearing shoes. He was obviously not Sundanese, Javanese, Madurese, or Balinese, and he wasn’t Malay either. Yes, he was probably Eurasian.
Then, catching me by surprise, his big shoes flung out at my case. I felt as if he were kicking my pride and my dignity as well. The case shimmied across
the floor. The office clerk tried to stop the second and third kicks. Then everyone started jockeying for a turn at giving it a kick.
Hey, you, I said to myself, are you going to take this treatment?
“Gentlemen,” I shouted in a rage, “forget the case. Here I am. Come on, one by one, or all together, it’s the same to me.”
I had never been in a fight in my life; I had never experienced such violent behavior as this. But I was ready. I snapped into position. My thighs pushed open the split in my sarong. My left hand undid the buttons on my shirt. And my eyes challenged them all.
They took no notice. They laughed! They were laughing at me! At me!
And then the boy in European clothes calmly tried to punch me on the nose. How dare he! My left hand shot toward his face; my right was ready to go for his chest. He stepped back. I took a step forward and my right hand advanced, and…I collapsed on the floor in the midst of tumultuous laughter.
I wanted to jump up, to attack again. But I couldn’t. Couldn’t! It was as if a mountain had fallen on my body. They were all holding down my legs. My sarong had been torn away and my underpants glared in their whiteness. I had been overcome so easily.
And it wasn’t over. In just a few seconds they stripped me naked. Except for a leather belt and my destar. Like a workhorse without its harness.
“Come on, big man, hero, start crowing again!” the Eurasian challenged me.
They let me go even while shouting and cheering. And like Adam chased out of Eden, I ran to my bed to get something to cover my nakedness.
“Don’t give him any clothes!” someone cried out in Malay to the office boy, who wanted to help me. “Let him run around like a buffalo in the fields.”
Everyone laughed again.
“Ayoh, start braying, come on, hero!”
Don’t think I’d ever bray for the lot of you.
Everyone crowded round, pulling me into the center of the room. And naked in front of everyone, I lost my strength. Perhaps that’s how a fighting cock would feel if all his feathers had been plucked. Naked, all I could do was stand there using my two hands to cover my private parts.