This means every year there is an influx of young women moving from the country to the cities and towns in an effort to find work. With only the most rudimentary educational backgrounds, their employment opportunities are somewhat limited and so they tend to become domestic workers or else gravitate to industrial work in factories – sweat shops – where they will usually be expected to work the same hours as domestic workers for about the same pay.
As pembantus they will usually live with a family and be expected to cook, clean and do the laundry. They will be on call all day, it’s true, but will rarely actually work much more than a few hours a day. They will be treated as a member of the family, have their own room, eat the same food as the family, watch TV together and generally be cared for and looked after. The salary they receive will be low by western standards but will normally remain almost untouched in an average month as all the pembantu’s living needs and expenses will be provided by the family she is employed by.
Anyway, I always had a reasonably good relationship with our pembantu and we got along fairly well with my pidgin Indonesian and her non-existent English, but, as I say, on this day in question she looked rather concerned to see me.
I proceeded on my merry way into the bedroom and upon opening the door saw the reason for the pembantu’s apprehension. Yossy, bless her little cotton socks, was lying on her stomach on the bed covered by the quilt, while Johnny, the dukun, was straddling her. He, at least, appeared to be fully clothed while I couldn’t see whether or not she was.
She didn’t miss a beat and smiled up at me as if a guy coming home to find his wife in bed with another man was the most common and normal thing in the world.
‘Hi, honey,’ she droned: ‘I feel so tired. Mr. Johnny has agreed to give me a massage. Good, ya?’
Mr. Johnny for his part at least had the grace to look if not guilty, then certainly a tad embarrassed and worried, as I guess is probably par for the course in such circumstances.
‘Ok, deh’ said I, and went back out into the living room to watch telly.
I think a slight diversion with regards to the general topic of dukuns in general is also called for. They are supposedly magical entities, who have the power to ensure all types of desired events or happenings occur (or don’t, as the case may be) and they are also alleged to have healing qualities applicable for the most intricate and diverse of ailments. Now, needless to say I was always somewhat sceptical of these gentlemen (they are always men) and tended to give them a wide berth at the best of times.
Having had a western upbringing, I found the whole concept of dukuns and black magic far fetched, but although I would sometimes share my doubts regarding the whole concept, in the main I kept my own counsel regarding such matters. However, one event that occurred shortly after Tess was born did cause me to slightly revisit my way of thinking.
When we took baby Tess home from the hospital after she was born, we were naturally delighted. She was everything we’d been hoping and praying for but there was one slight problem. No matter what we did or tried we couldn’t get Tess to settle down in the room we’d allocated her.
Every time Tess was led into the room she would scream and scream as loud as her little lungs would allow and just would not stop. Nothing Yossy or I did seemed to calm her down and no amount of soothing or cuddling seemed to make any difference whatsoever. Yet as soon as either of us wandered into another room with Tess in our arms, the wailing would cease instantly.
‘Neil. We have to face it. There is something in the room that is disturbing her. Even a noodle-brain like you can see that, surely?’ Yossy started for the umpteenth time. ‘We have to get a dukun in to see what the problem is.’
I was aghast. ‘No way! I’m not having some quack coming here and poking around my house. No, there has to be some logical explanation as to why Tess can’t settle in this room.’
Yossy eyed me scornfully. ‘Like what, Mr Logic? Come on, I’m all ears. Let’s hear it.’
Sometimes I really did regret teaching Yossy English to the level I had. However, that was the nature of the beast.
‘I don’t know, do I?’ was my rather weak response: ‘Maybe this room has recently been painted and the smell is still lingering to her sensitive nose. Or perhaps there is a draft in here that is making her uncomfortable, or maybe …’
Yoss cut me off. ‘Maybe … maybe … maybe,’ she mimicked: ‘Maybe I married a clown. I’m calling the dukun, and that’s that.’
That was indeed that, and an hour or so later said dukun was at our door. I didn’t need to be told to stay out of the gentleman’s way (Yossy’s evil eye in my direction did that trick) and I had no desire to get involved anyway. Instead, I busied myself with making a cup of coffee in the parlour kitchen at the back of the small dwelling.
From my vantage point, I could hear the guy making some kind
