Footsteps Read Free Page B

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, even 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