LIBERATION

D reams fragment and scatter into daytime oblivion as the bus jolts and my head bangs against the metal rail that runs along the windows. My mouth is dry as paper and I can feel sweat droplets on my brow. Next to me, Julie’s head lolls forward near her chest and her eyes are closed. I look around the bus; all the seats are nearly full with teenagers or young adults. One or two are older people with bags on their laps, and one woman holds a live chicken on hers. Naomi is asleep, Kim is sitting in the middle of the back seats dragging on a cigarette, watching Jussy talking and laughing with two girls sitting further up the bus. Marty is standing in the open door at the back holding onto to the frame, spraying piss to the wind.

‘Couldn’t do this in Melbourne,’ he says as he shakes himself dry.

I look out the window, and coconut trees, bushes with massive green leaves and giant ferns go past. The bus is bouncing up and down on what must be unsurfaced road. The bouncing is sloshing the fluids in my bladder. I don’t know whether to drink first or pee. I’m not yet quite up to peeing off of a moving vehicle so I look in my bag for a drink and find none. I twist in my seat.

‘Anyone got a drink?’

Kim reaches between his legs and pulls up a bottle of Bintang.

‘Breakfast,’ he says, walking up the aisle to me.

‘No water?’ I ask.

‘Fuck no. Come on, man, it’s the weekend.’ He hands the bottle over to me.

I take it and gulp. My tongue now feels like a lump of papiermâché. I drink more.

‘Good sleep? Come down yet?’

‘Yeah. Back on the ground.’ I think. ‘How far have we got to go?’ I need some accompaniment for my liquid breakfast and pull my cigarettes out of my pocket.

‘About half an hour. You been asleep for two hours. Missed your first view of outside the city.’

‘This bus got a loo?’ I ask.

‘Yeah. A big fucking outside one.’ He waves his hands at the window. ‘Marty and me managed it. The bus guys don’t seem to mind. Go for it, it’s kind of liberating.’

My legs are feeling cramped and tingly from being stuck in a small space for too long, so I decide I might as well try it. I stand and try to squeeze past Julie without waking her, but the gap is too small and the bus jolts. Her head meets my bum.

‘Jeessuuus. Didn’t expect to wake up to that,’ she says and pushes me out into the aisle. ‘Hope you haven’t got the squits.’

‘No. You’re safe.’

I stagger with the motion of the bus to the open back door. There are two steps down before a drop onto the passing brown road. How the hell am I supposed to do this? I realise it’ll be easier if I free my hands of beer and cigarette. Cig between lips, I go down one step, wrap my arm around a chrome handrail, put the beer in that hand, look for my zip and remember I haven’t got one. I pull the front of my light cotton trousers down and somehow manage to get him out while holding the front of my trousers just low enough to aim out the door. I’m aware of Kim and Marty watching my progress from behind.

‘Do you mind looking the other way?’ I say with the cigarette clamped between my teeth.

‘We putting you off?’ asks Marty.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, half the rest of the bus are watching too.’

I crane my neck and look back into the bus. A young group are watching and giggling and the older woman with the chicken on her lap tries to hide a smile. I’m sure they can’t see my bits. I hope. I change my angle to make sure.

Don’t give a shit. Don’t give a shit.

Close my eyes.

Don’t give a shit. Come on, New Me. You can do it. You don’t give a shit. No penis shyness.

And there it is. I look down at it arcing out and then being turned into spray by the speed of the bus. It is liberating. I lean to my hand holding the beer and manage to pass the cigarette to my fingers and get the bottle to my lips, then I put the smoke back between my teeth; nothing spilt or lost.

Pissing, smoking, drinking arsehole.

When I’m empty and he’s back in my trousers, I stay there on the step, watching trees and ferns as tall as me go past and I smile. I’m actually about to see my first jungle. I’m not on the Number 11 going to work. I’m not in the developed world of consumerism and rules and profit and fashion and who’s got this and who needs that and my car’s faster than yours and what’s on TV tonight.

I sit down on the step and wallow in my epiphany, knowing that to pee free is to be free, until the bus slows a little and the road disappears and becomes something I only thought existed in adventure films: a rickety bridge with great gaps between pieces of old wood and rusting metal. About fifteen metres below it a fast-flowing and shallow river is visible through the holes as we pass over. I lean out of the bus, holding onto the handrail, and look behind. The bus is following carefully placed planks that aren’t much wider than the wheels. They rattle as we go over them. I smile. Life is better when death can nearly reach out and grab you. I almost wish it would. A morning of epiphanies.

We rattle off the other side of the bridge and I watch it disappear as we go around a bend. I sit back on the step and take in every leaf, every tree, every pothole, until the bus slows. We pass by bamboo and wood huts and houses and stop at the end of the road. A sign tells us we’ve arrived at Bukit Lawang, our destination. We blink our gritty eyes, stretch our arms, pick up our little shoulder bags and get off.

‘This way,’ says Kim. We follow him to a path that leads up between wooden shacks and stalls selling all colours of sarongs and batik-patterned shirts. The jungle is green and thick and high behind the buildings. In a few seconds the river is on our left, wide, fast and shallow; it flows back in the direction we have come from and then falls quickly over a weir. There is a restaurant partly on stilts overhanging the river on the other bank, and on this bank wooden-and-bamboo-constructed bars and eating places interrupt the view. Bob Marley posters and Rasta colours decorate the walls of a lot of them and occasional reggae music mixes with the sound of the river. The buildings are nearly all open on at least two sides. Cushions, bamboo chairs and tables furnish them. An occasional owner or barman says hello or tries to get us to come in for a drink or food. My stomach is rumbling, but Kim keeps us going.

After five or ten minutes of following the uneven path past the stalls and buildings it climbs into trees, but still follows the river, which flows a little way below. The jungle is becoming more imposing and trees tower over the river valley on both sides. The green is all-encompassing and surreal after the city and a night in a darkened disco.

We pause to watch half a dozen Indonesians shoot down the river on giant inner tubes, laughing and spinning and bouncing over white frothing rocks as they go.

‘Who’s up for tubing later?’ asks Jussy.

‘Nah, not me,’ answers Julie, who now looks pale. She blinks about six times in quick-fire succession.

‘Maybe tomorrow. I want food and beer and swimming,’ says Kim.

Naomi, who hasn’t said anything since Medan, mutters, ‘Maybe.’

‘Beer,’ says Marty.

I say nothing. I’m happy just to stare at the immense green that looms over and around me. I wonder how far the jungle goes once you’re in it and what’s in it. I’m not even sure if it is officially a jungle or a forest or what. My lack of knowledge astounds me.

We start walking and I’m sweating again. The path dips back down and we’re amongst some more bamboo stalls, shacks and bars. These too lean out over the river on one side of the path and line the jungle on the other. There is mostly only one row of buildings, except for a few add-on constructions behind, and behind them is a slope going up and up, covered in vegetation.

Kim leads us into one of the restaurants on the right. It’s all open and covered only by a wood, bamboo and leaf roof. Everything inside is made from the same. It’s cool in the shade.

‘Hey, hello, my friend,’ says a shirtless guy of about twenty, with dark-skin and lean muscle and long straight hair down to his cutoff trousers. ‘Good to see you again.’ He knocks knuckles with Kim. ‘You want rooms?’

‘Yeah, man. We all want singles?’

We answer in the affirmative.

‘OK.’ The Indonesian goes into a back room and brings out five keys, each hanging off a number carved from wood.

We arrange to meet back in the restaurant in thirty minutes and go off to find our rooms. Mine is up a path that runs behind the bar and then up a few steps. I climb the stone-made steps. An aquamarine-and-black butterfly the size of my hand floats in front of me and lands on a leaf by the path. I kneel to look at her, wings quivering as she rests. She seems too delicate to fly, so delicate that if a raindrop were to land on her it would tear her wing. Suddenly she is afloat again and rises into the jungle foliage. I climb a few more steps to my door, wondering at the fragility of things.

I unlock the wood-slatted entrance. It creaks open. Inside are cool shadows and basic comforts, but better than any hotel room I’ve stayed in; no neatly folded towels, no yelling TV, no smell of fabricated fresh air. Here is real air with a scent of damp timber and earth. Within wooden walls, a double bed with only a sheet and thin blanket, a rotting wooden cupboard and a bamboo chair welcome me. I can hear the sound of running water. I lick around my dry gums. There is no window, but daylight falls through the gaps in the wooden walls. There are two more doors. I open one. It leads onto a balcony.

I catch my breath.

The rickety and gnarled wooden platform has a roof of banana leaves and overlooks a small stream. This tumbles away from a small waterfall which pours out of the forest undergrowth a few metres away. The brook bubbles over rocks and down the hill from the forest where it disappears into darkness under the back wall of the restaurant a little below. Fern leaves and large red flowers bend over the stream, and the trees of the jungle loom above leaving only a small gap of blue sky. The smell of moisture and damp dirt mixes with the scent of flora unknown. I stand there, taking it in, when three more butterflies of different vivid colours—yellows, reds, turquoise—float across my private little valley.

I don’t want to meet the others. I want to stay here. New Me almost lets me, but for the fact that there must be so much more to see, and he wants to see it.

Back inside there is a bathroom which consists of a toilet, a bucket of water, a scoop beside it and a shower. It is all open plan, with no shower curtain, and the floor is concrete. The toilet doesn’t flush and I have to throw water down it from the bucket to clear it, and the shower is icy cold. I stick different parts of me under it one by one until finally all my body is acclimatised and ready to stand under it at once. I stand upright under the flow and gasp. It is so cold that it must be straight from the stream and is probably purer and cleaner than any chemical-enhanced water back home. It is the best shower in the world. I haven’t felt this alive since…

since…

—That time—

—Shut up, Laura.

I spin the taps off. I towel my head so it hurts.

I want to see more of this place. And that’s all I want.

I dry myself. I dress. I go to meet the others.

Since…

That time under the waterfall. I remember it, Laura. Down here, with you, I remember it. We follow the stream up from the lake, climbing over rocks, up and up and away from the road and people. The waterfall drops from about ten feet into a pool of dark, calm water before the stream continues its journey down the hill. You lift your shirt over your head as soon as you see it, unclip your bra, step out of your jeans and underwear. Your body so pale, untouched by sun. Your black hair shining in the spring sunlight which spills through the trees lining this secret little valley. You step into the shallow water, drawing in breath and yelping at the coldness. I watch as you feel your way into deeper water, stumbling and giggling, hobbling over hidden rocks and stones. God, you look gorgeous. You throw cupped handfuls of freezing water over your hair, your nipples hard from the shock of it; your body seeming even whiter against the dark of the pool that surrounds you. You reach the waterfall. Shivering, you stand there, letting the fine spray cover you before you step under its foaming power. You scream and the scream becomes a laugh and the laugh becomes a yell.

‘Come in,’ you shout. ‘Come here.’

I pull my clothes from my body. I trip as I step out of my pants. I come to you. The water is numbing to my feet. Goosebumps break out across my body. But I come to you. You still laugh and hold your arms out to me as the torrent runs over you, blurring your face. I must be a blur to you too. I stumble, I stagger, I feel my way over hidden obstacles to be with you under the waterfall. Then I am there and I can’t believe the coldness of it. But it is life-giving; it is invigorating. It beats us, it wallops us, it pushes down on us, but we are alive. So alive. Your arms wrap around me and we kiss, fresh water pouring into our mouths, between our bodies pressed close to each other. I feel your breasts against me, your skin so soft, your nipples press hard against my chest. I am hard against you. Your legs wrap around me and I nearly fall, but we are against the rock under the waterfall. We hold on. You are warm around me. I am warm inside you. Cold outside. Shivering. Making love. Kissing. Swallowing and drinking purest water. My hands trying to hold us up, grasping at slippery rock, then grasping you. Wanting more warmth. Wanting deeper warmth. The water pounds us, massages us, makes us.

I have never been so alive. Together we are so alive. So alive.