Spoiler: battle through this post, and at the end, you’ll be rewarded with the most exciting serenade yet. Also, there’s a cobra new belt.
A few months ago, I came home from school, dropped my bag and headed to the cooking area for lunch. Walking through the house, I glanced into the living room, and saw something that would catch any American’s attention.
My bapak (father) was lying face-up, eyes closed on a mattress spread across the floor. At his head stood a woman I didn’t recognize. She didn’t seem to notice me, and I watched as–with apparently dripping fingers–she traced circles in the air above Bapak’s head, all the while mumbling a soft incantation. When her hands no longer dripped, the woman reached down, dipped her fingers into a small bucket, and continued on as if uninterrupted.
This mysterious mystic–I could handle that. But what she was doing in our house.–that didn’t make sense. Because even though traditional mysticism is interwoven with Islam all across Java, my family is supposed to represent a break from religious hybridization. We are Muhammadiyan, members of a Muslim organization dedicated to a close, textually unadulterated interpretation of Islamic teaching. That’s why—in my home—we never talk of pocongs (shrouded ghosts), never hold traditional tahlilans for dead relatives, and aren’t afraid to sleep with the lights off. Alternative healing doesn’t fit in to what we do.
My confusion might have had an easy explanation, though. Bapak was just really sick.
I’d noticed problems ever since I arrived over a year ago. First, it was the sleep deprivation, me waking up in the night to the sound of his sandals scraping across the stone path outside; next, chronic coughing lasting months on end; then the bum knee; and finally, dizziness accompanied by a loss of appetite. Bapak consulted several doctors and apothecaries living in our area, exhausting professional opinion but not getting any better for it. As I see it, seeing the mystic woman, might have just been the next logical step for a man with nowhere else to turn.
Recently, Bapak’s illness(es) hit a dramatic climax. He came down with nausea mid-week, couldn’t eat, and could hardly leave his sleeping mat. Then, he told Ibu to sell the goats because–despite his pride–he no longer had strength to search for their grass every afternoon. After that, the family tried to take him the district puskesmas (“clinic”), but chronic overcrowding meant he was turned away. It took three days for a bed to become available.
On my end, I struggled to understand what was going on. That’s partly because no one else knew what was going on either (“lung problem” was the uneasy consensus). But even more so, I didn’t understand the seriousness because Javanese people just don’t talk about pain. They’re like little Rocky Balboas facing scowling Soviet giants—the hits keep coming, and you get the impression they’d sooner get knocked out rather than tap out. So despite growing rail thin and struggling to walk independently, Bapak kept a smile that kept me guessing. Just how sick he was, I didn’t know.
But thankfully, some puskesmas wizard with a glucose meter figured it out. I visited Bapak on Tuesday, dragging two cheerful, visiting trainees along with me. Our visit came two days after Bapak entered the clinic, and I immediately felt guilty. Boxes of crackers and cakes lay scattered about the room; it was clear he had already seen a lot of visitors (Ibu guestimated at least a few hundred). Then, I noticed the IV drip, settled back into reality, and asked a family member if they’d learned anything new. He said, “Yeah, Bapak has diabetes.”
Exhale.
It looks like a lifetime of ridiculously sweet tea has finally made its mark; however, at least in the short-term, it’s good to know that Bapak isn’t in any immediate danger and that–with a few dietary changes–he should be back to normalish soon. Now, if he can only put up with the foul-smelling “cappucino” brew he’s being forced to drink twice a day.
This week in serenades: the friends got creative. A few weeks ago, Addison crossed state lines to team up with Casey Newman and produce one of the better collaborative efforts in recent history. Addison’s day-jobbing as an auditing accountant, president-of-everything, and guiltless breaker of hearts was already profiled back in January.
On the other hand, Casey’s name is still shrouded in mystery, but we assume he undoubtedly prefers it that way. A few teasers: Casey likes the Cubs, is a master of mischief, and plays an adequate Kirby in Smash Brothers 64. He also currently lives in Greenville, South Carolina.
Daniel in Indo 
