Forget surfing, forget shameless beach sex, forget trekking to the Komodo Island to see Indonesia’s man-eating dragons. All my plans for a tropical adventure are officially dead.
“Dammit guy!” I cry out. “It hurts–it hurts–it really hurts!”
“Sorry,” says Russ. That’s my husband.
You want to hear what adventure looks like from where I’m sitting? Let me tell you: It looks like a crappy seven-dollar-a-night bungalow with sweaty ceilings, a springy mattress, an itchy mosquito net and a family of gigantic cockroaches playing freeze tag in the mildewy bathroom.
I breathe out, gripping the edge of the bed. “All right!–I’m all right.”
With caution, Russ lifts the rest of me onto the mattress and props my banged-up leg on top of a backpack and two pillows. He flicks on the fan but no air blows. Power is out again–fantastic! That means for the next several hours I not only have half the use of my legs, but now I’m easy prey for the vermin. Helluva way to start life in Lombok, eh? Restless, I tear open a pack a garlic peanut puffs and pop two in my mouth.
After living in Chiang Mai, Thailand for the past three months, I came here ready for the natural world–ready to explore fishing villages, add some Bahasa to my vocabulary, leap off cliffs into the sea, you know, like the adventurous types. Unfortunately, life had other plans. So what happened? I’ll tell you what happened. It all started one week ago when I first learned of a place called Monkey Forest.
§
Our Air Asia flight from Bangkok arrived at the international airport in Surabaya after 11:45 p.m. A half-hour later, our taxi driver pulled up to a shadowy hostel covered in moss and vines. The place looked like an abandoned refuge. The kind of place you’d throw rocks at as a kid then run like hell.
After six attempts at the doorbell, a tiny light shone through the window. A grinning woman opened the door. She was stout with full cheeks, curly short hair and a long, white buttonless nightgown. She spoke very hushed and called herself Dhyana, the hostel owner. Dhyana ushered us up a winding flight of white tile stairs and into a cell-like room furnished with twin beds.
Next day, we awoke to the early morning adhān, the Islamic call to prayer, trumpeting over loudspeakers. Afterward, Dhyana made breakfast. Light rain turned into a thunderstorm. Russ and I stayed inside all day. That night, I couldn’t sleep through the rumble so while Russ was out cold upstairs, I joined Dhyana in the main room. And that’s when she told me the story of Monkey Mountain.
Monkey Mountain is a sinister folktale that terrified Dhyana when she was young. It is a secret place in the forest where mothers and fathers go to ask the devil for riches. The devil delights in the begging parents and finally promises to grant their desires. But they return home to find that, in exchange for riches, the soul of their child is gone. Forever trapped in inside of the forest monkeys.
I sat crossed-legged, wide-eyed like a kid, entranced. Dhyana stared at me with the strangest look on her face, as if I had to be some kind of twisted to enjoy such a story. Thing is, I always had a funny fixation with tales that have unpleasant endings.
One week later, when our ferry docked at Lombok and I learned there was a place on the island called Monkey Forest, I told Russ we had to check it out. Now, usually, my husband has no interest wildlife. He’s just not one of those characters. And so, to get my wish, I promised him that on the way back from the forest, we could stop at a secluded beach where I would make the trip worth his while…
The next morning, we rented a motorbike.
“Uh, you sure you feel comfortable on this thing?” I asked Russ, clutching his waist.
“Yeah,” he said, revving the motorbike.
That would be the sixth time I asked. Russ was ready to make good of my promise and nags about safety were killing his mood. But this was our first time driving abroad and Americans don’t drive on the left side of the road. Of all the accidents foreigners face, I heard motorbikes are the deadliest and most common. So naturally, I was unnerved.
But then I had to catch myself because law of attraction says what we think is what we manifest. So I replaced thoughts of crashing and blood spatter with thoughts of cute little monkeys and picking out a sandy love nest. I gave our helmets a final tug and gripped Russ tight as the bike sputtered smoke then whipped into the road, headed for Monkey Forest.
§
I kept getting smacked in the face by great winds as we rode the hilly terrain. But I didn’t mind. We had nothing but sunny skies and pretty green mountains ahead of us. It was a quiet drive, a weekday, so the road was empty save for a few lone vehicles. I looked to my left. I could see the coastline with its fresh cerulean waters. I spotted a slew of perahus anchored ashore and fishers reclined against shady nut trees.
“Am I holding too tight?” I said, nose mushed into my husband’s back.
“Nope,” says Russ, cruising the steep slope.
Before long, the fuel gauge crept down to empty. I kept watch for petrol dealers–gasoline is “petrol” out here. Petrol looks like urine in glass bottles sold on the side of the road. We stopped at a fishing village and while a dealer piddled petrol into the tank, I bought a cold bottled drink from a warung and asked the locals how much farther was Monkey Forest. Fingers pointed up the road. Most spoke the language of the country, Bahasa Indonesia, but there were a few who studied English. That’s how I found out about snacks.
“It is not nice to see monkeys without snacks,” said the petrol dealer.
“If you have snacks, everything will be fine,” said the warung owner.
“I like the beach. I do not go up there,” said a 50-year-old fisher in an Orlando Magic jersey. “But with snacks, you will be okay.”
Okay, so we got snacks. Back on the bike, we ride a few more kilometers up the road.
“How about here?” I said, pointing to a snack cart.
Russ eased on the throttle. I scanned the cluttered cart and pointed. Cart owner ripped off ten small packs of garlic peanut puffs and handed them to me.
“Terima kasih,” I said, passing him a blue-purple bill.
“Want any?” I called back to Russ.
“Are those for humans?” Russ asked, considering from the bike.
I flipped over the pack, but the labels read in Bahasa Indonesia. I brought the pack to my nose and sniffed. Smelled like garlic to me.
“I don’t know, I can’t tell.”
“I’m good,” he said.
I signaled to the cart owner and held up the peanut puffs. “Monkeys?”
He pointed up the road. I shrugged and tossed the snacks into my bag. I hopped back on the bike, giddy-like, because three kilometers away was the fabled forest.
§
I spotted a monkey sitting on a wooden post.
“Over there Russ. Slow down–look,” I said, clenching my bag. “Pull over.”
As my eyes adjusted to the dim light of the dark forest, monkeys with long tails and pointed heads started popping up everywhere. Some scampered across the road. Others huddled near the trees or swung from branches. Russ slowed down and found a clear space on the side of the narrow road on the hill. He pulled over and turned off the bike. I hung my helmet, looking around in awe.
A few monkeys scooted toward us. Careful not to move too suddenly, I snuck a pack of peanut puffs to Russ.
“So I guess we just feed them,” I said, reaching for the camera.
Russ threw a peanut puff. Monkeys leaped from their posts. He threw another. I watched as my hand fished for my camera, somewhere in my bag. A gang of monkeys started moving our way. Five, ten, hundreds. I’m guessing. Within seconds, their numbers tripled. My anxious hand fumbled over a glasses case, packs of peanut puffs, tampons, a cosmetics bag. Where the hell was this camera? Fumbling, fumbling. More fumbling.
Monkeys were getting closer. To distract them, Russ heaved the whole bag. Dozens of tiny white puffs rolled across the skinny, dirt road. Monkeys raced after the skittering snacks. But the clever ones were not fooled and headed straight for the source.
Panicked, I glanced down to grab more snacks and, to my horror, saw that two of the rascals had come within inches of my ankle. Suddenly, I was 10 years old again.
§
It was my birthday. I was having a pool party at my nana’s house. The backyard ringing with sounds of laughter and splashing water. Mommy set a pretty cake in the center of a picnic table next to a stack of shiny boxed gifts and money envelopes. Smoke oozed from the old-fashioned pit while daddy flipped ribs and slathered them in sweet sauce. A call to sing the Happy Birthday sent a rush of little legs clamoring out of the pool to sit around the cake. I took a great big breath and blew out ten candles. All around, kids sat in chairs and on steps eating cake and ice cream when suddenly we heard a loud scream.
Someone spotted a fat hairy possum.
Cakes flew, guests scattered, running in every direction. Daddy dashed around with his water hose and cigarette, trying to nail the fat sucker. Kids in colorful swimsuits stood shivering on chairs. Horrified, I found a spot in the corner and stayed there, trembling, wishing things would just go back to normal.
I glanced down at my 10-year-old feet…and there it was, frozen stiff, its thin possum mouth curved into a grotesque grin, showing its disgusting pink gums and razor sharp choppers. The thing was soaked and shivering like the kids, hiding from daddy and his hose. I hollered–
“Russ, go!” I said, snapping back to the present. I tossed my leg over the bike. Forget snacks, forget taking pictures. I just wanted to get the hell outta that crazy forest!
Russ started the motor. More monkeys rushed over. The two rascals were eyeballing my ankle, preparing for the tear.
“Go! Go! Get me the hell out of here!” I shrieked, grasping my husband’s shoulder.
And the bike zoomed away. Without me.
§
I never knew I could fly before then. And, girl, was I soaring. But the funny thing about flying is you don’t really know you’re flying–until you fall. For a beat, I felt my left leg stretch long and far, trying to hold on to a bike that’s moving in full gear. Then the bike disappeared. The sunlight disappeared. The trees disappeared, too. I felt warm all over. My eyes fluttered and I felt like drifting to sleep…
“Asia! Hey–Asia! You okay?” Russ had his hands on my back, sitting me up.
“I don’t think I landed right,” I heard myself mutter.
I took a moment to orient myself, then looked around. My legs were sprawled out on the gravel. No bones poking out. No blood. But I hurt real bad and an Indonesian man with a blurry face was rubbing my feet.
“Okay?” asked Blurry Face.
My eyes flapped open and shut. Sweat gushed down my face. Hands pressed against my foot, wiggled my toes, squeezed my legs for tender spots. I tried to stand.
“Watch it–” said Russ. “You’re moving too fast.”
I felt breakfast bitching in my belly. I leaned forward, parted my legs, ready to spit up nasi goreng. I gagged and spat. Nothing else came out. A few feet away, I glimpsed a monkey gnawing on my favorite sandal. Nearby, more grim-looking monkeys were watching. Indonesian man hissed at them. Some scrammed. Russ helped me stagger to my bare feet. I frowned at the mechanical deathtrap, parked off the road.
“Do you want to go to the hospital?” Russ asked.
“No,” I said. “Just let me rest.”
Four hands hoisted me onto the leather seat. With my legs and feet safely secured, I thanked Blurry Face for stopping to help. He got onto his motorbike and waited for us to go.
“You good?” Russ asked, looking back at me.
I nodded.
“You sure you’re good?” he said, gripping the bike handles.
I nodded again and tightened my arms around his waist. Slower than ever, he eased back onto the road and let the wheels start rolling. My head sunk into Russ’ back and I tried hard as I could not to close my eyes.
You know, my mind tends to make these strange connections. Like why things happen the way they do. I thought about why this accident happened on the ride back. Was I not supposed to come to Monkey Forest? Were we supposed to fly into the Philippines instead of Indonesia like we talked about? Or am I too cowardly to be the adventurous type? I never figured it out. And when I raised my eyes, the sun had fallen and we were pulling up to our kampung.
§
So you wanted to know how it happened–well, there you have it. I’m on one-month respite with a sweaty wrap on my banged-up left leg and just two packs of peanut puffs to go before I’m out. The door creaks open. In walks Russ, coming to check on me again. He flicks on the fan. It rattles and spins. Russ’ hand brushes my toes. He gives me a suggestive look.
I try to imagine myself with my husband on one of those deserted beaches, thanking him thoroughly for accommodating me. I imagine us going surfing in those cerulean waters and trekking to see the Komodo dragons. Okay, maybe not the dragons. Dragons look like monkeys. And possums. But none of that matters now that I’m here on one of the world’s most stunning islands, bedridden on a springy mattress in a vermin-infested bungalow. Bye-bye tropical adventures–
Russ takes the peanut puffs from my pathetic hand.
“Hey!” I pout.
He ignores me. Then he moves close, reaches down, and scoots the backpack from under my bruised leg to give him space.
“I was eating those,” I said, glancing at that half-full bag of puffs. “They taste good, you know.”
Read this story and more adventures from fellow travelers in:
Trailblasian: Black Women Living in East Asia
Adventures of a Lifetime Anthology