In my Surabaya hotel room, the evening before my departure for Bawean, I had watched a female entertainer on television, dressed less conservatively than I, while in the screen's upper corner a little beating drum signaled a prayer call. In the Baweanese towns of Sangkapura and Tambak, acceptable attire did not include a headscarf. In my host's simple village of devout farmers, where the daily rhythm revolved around prayer times, I covered my head like every woman. It was hot beneath the scarf and difficult to keep in place while I moved about. A veil is not only an article of religious respect, but also enhances a woman's beauty. My host's housekeepers, in whose care I was placed, took me to the market to purchase a scarf more becoming than the one I had brought and two of finer material for them. They wore them with pride the day I departed and I was aware that when I removed mine, in their eyes I diminished my femininity.
The headscarf also concealed my differences. At night, the village women gathered at my host's house for prayers, hour-long recitations of the Koran that became anticipated performances during my visit. Some were surprised at first that I didn't know the Arabic passages, but as the week went on, they took their leave of me with a single hand raised to their breast in the Malay gesture of respect. Among them lived a centenarian, a woman of such fragility that I could encircle her forearm with my fingers. Yet she lived alone, a widow for decades, in the last mud-floored attap hut of its kind. She was my host's grandmother and I was the first Caucasian woman that she had met.
When Lake Kastoba was King Babileono's domain, it was taboo for women to set foot there. One acted as my cheerful escort, along with her husband and five of their nine children, who wanted to picnic and fish. We abandoned the truck after thirty minutes and climbed a steep hill, stopping to introduce me to curious residents who, back from their rice, peanut and cassava fields, rested on attap-surfaced wooden platforms outside their houses called dhurungs. Cultivated fields alternated with teak forests; Baweanese substitute the tree's dinner-plate sized leaves for paper and plastic to package fresh produce at the markets.
Baweanese folklore maintains that Lake Kastoba was formed by a genie pulling up a tree. Others say that a special tree stands by the lake, its bark eternally free of moss and its falling leaves and branches disappearing before reaching the ground. The lake was a perfect setting for sorcerers: its thick surrounding vegetation dripped creepers and small fruit bats kissed its inky surface. We stayed for sunset, the children engrossed in their play. The photos that I took of this happy time were all inexplicably overexposed. I was not the first disappointed photographer. Professional cameramen, hired to photograph the lake from the air, gave up when film after exposed film remained mysteriously blank.
Upon my return from the lake, I felt a sudden ache in my knee that mystified me. The walk hadn't been strenuous or difficult. I was still favoring one leg when I boarded the K.M. Pratini for Java. The captain and I greeted each other like old friends. He nodded knowingly when informed of my discomfort. Someone, he said, wanted me to stay longer on the island.
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