Rice over Riches

by Angela Santoso (Australia)

Making a local connection Indonesia

I stormed through the sidewalk, kicking up dust with every step, grumbling with disdain perhaps now a few metres away from the site entrance. It was a safe distance now from the crowds of tourists, children on excursions and the lot. It was a matter of rupiah. My cousin strolled straight through bag inspections where she could seamlessly blend into the crowd beneath the Temple of Prambanan, Yogyakarta. Tabitha assured them “She’s with me” as she reached the end of the line where I was held up. “Sorry ma’am, this is a local ticket, may I refer you to the foreign tourist office for the correct fare.” And with those words, my ticket in to pay respects to my own culture, my own history, my own identity was spat back into my face. I grew paler than I noticeably was before as I walked away hoping that the sweat would make my dirt brown tresses cling to my face, not that it had much use in hiding much. Having gotten far enough to potentially get lost, I looked up at the buildings which somehow managed to retain its colours. Blue, red, yellow, bleached by the sun and rinsed by the rain. It was the kind of weather that made the paint melt and rust drip like oil. It had no choice but to recede into the background of existence, to be washed away. Perhaps I could only resort to these streets, never to reach the beauty of those temples as one who belonged. Just around the corner were a line-up of food carts. The smoke would whisk through the salty air, peppering it with spices. I looked at the dark man, tossing up the rice that skipped and hissed on the wok. He wore the same face as I did- a creased forehead and furrowed brows pooled with sweat. But at this hour, the sun was much more forgiving, its light became sparse as it scattered itself amongst branches, playing tricks of light on those balmy green leaves that sparkled like emeralds. I closed my eyes. I could hear the rustling of the plastic bags being swept down the road and the distant juddering of the auto-rickshaw, slowly fading out into the wind. Soon, it finally met with my sweltering skin, that afternoon breeze. I knew he felt it too. And we both watched as the sun set behind the white dome mosque, bowing down to Allah. This whole place is a temple, and he too had to pay the price for remaining here, but that was not to say that he belonged. The temple’s beauty lies in its stories, the bitter-sweet. It’s the woman who could barely feed herself, feeding the stray cats who take refuge under her shabby tin roof. It’s the men who should be home with their wives, gathering by the street shack in the middle of the night, cheering on their soccer team through a small, grainy television. Or it’s that man, working behind the food cart, who you happen to smile at as you both share a moment amongst the floating rubbish, dancing in the wind. I was as comparable to these people as I was incomparable, but I set all those inhibitions to the wind and realised the mosquitoes here feast on all blood, blood which flowed deeper than the linings of my pockets. Its buzzing was silent but echoed far greater than the jingling of any Jakartan businessman’s trousers. His face would grow pale too, in the midst of the riches of these stories which surrounded him. I look back at the man, tossing the rice sporadically. I was among those grains of rice and we are all tossed in sweltering heat in perfect synchronisation. That heat rose to his teary eyes which harboured all the strains and hardships, sparkling. I approached him and paid my fare to a national treasure.