Photographs

A time capsule

Color photographs fade; memories do not.

North Sumatra is a wildly cosmopolitan place, but when I was twelve the road from Medan to Brastagi was bordered by jungle.  There were tigers in the woods and, though I knew better, I pressed my nose against the window hoping for a glimpse of sleek whiskered stripes.  When we stopped for a break monkeys rushed out begging for food like squirrels, and an unseen chorus of siamangs burst into song; it was like being in the front row of a rock concert without earplugs.  Suddenly the veteran missionary guiding us pointed up a tree.  Even from a distance the shining black ape looked huge, and when it began to descend he panicked.  "Hurry, get in the car! He is going to get us! Roll up the windows!"  The ape had better things to do than to climb through our windows, I thought sadly, but if he wanted to abduct me from the stupid grown-ups I wouldn't resist at all.

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Borobudor is a massive 8th century stone mountain in Central Java that towers 400 feet into the sapphire sky containing more than 2,000 stone reliefs depicting the life of Buddha and more than 70 life-sized Buddhas meditating beneath perforated stupas.  The out of shape missionaries were unimpressed.  All this glory in honor of Buddha was disturbing, and their pudgy bodies were unaccustomed to the shimmering heat.  I was only three, but it was easy to keep up.  The most ill-tempered of the group looked down at me and growled, "What a waste of time to bring her along.  She will never remember this."  My eyes narrowed and I mentally photographed a relief depicting Buddha's birth, and captured the blazing heat searing ancient stone.  I will never forget.

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When I was 10 Kuta Beach, Bali was an endless mother-of-pearl curve lapped by a tranquil turquoise sea fanned by graceful coconut palms.  My mother and I built castles, sank our toes into shining sand, and watched the sunlight encrust the wavelets with diamonds.   We were entirely alone except for small children offering shell necklaces to sell. A young mother pushed her little girl towards us.  "Will you take her to America?  I have no money.  She will have a better life with you."  My mother was raising two Indonesian girls already and she was tempted, but she could only give the woman what money she had and walked away.  

Today Kuta Beach is encrusted with luxury hotels, and it's trendy beyond belief.  It is hard to find a scrap of beach without a tourist on it.  David Bowie and Mick Jagger married there (not to each other) and resorts like Sandals and Club Med abound.  But just beneath my eyelids the ghost of Kuta remains.

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I don't need a vacation.  I have a time capsule, and when I close my eyes I am there still.

Santa Claus

I was six when I learned that the American Santa didn't deliver.  That December I sat on his lap and requested a toy I'd seen advertised on TV, a giant doll that came with its own desk.  I didn't care for dolls but the desk looked intriguing, and I wanted a toy for once so it was worth a shot.  Every Christmas Eve I would expectantly squeeze my presents and they invariably squished.  On Christmas and birthdays I received nothing but clothes, with the occasional stuffed animal thrown in (these squished too).  That Christmas my neighbor received the doll and I unwrapped a dress.  I hated dresses. The American Santa was a sham.

The Dutch Santa was different matter entirely; Sinterklaas was all business.  He added menace to the mix.  Accompanying him was a trusty black sidekick, Swarte Piet, who scooped evil children into his sack and carted them away.  In Ambon we learned that Swarte Piet tossed his sack into the ocean and drowned children like cats.   There is nothing like the threat of death to keep a kid on the straight and narrow.  I was very, very good in December.

One year another missonary decided to dress like Santa and surprise the children.  As his two kids and I peeked out at Santa waiting expectantly on the couch we noticed nothing but the bulging sack at his feet; it could only be a fur-lined body bag.  His children hid beneath the bed and refused to come out, and I was the only one brave enough to flirt with death by sitting on Santa's lap.

Years later I told my kids about Sinterklaas, Father Christmas and Santa, and how they divided up the duties on different feast days.  It wasn't difficult for the Santas to cover their territory with so many versions doing the job, especially since Santa didn't really bother with huge parts of the globe anyway.  Of all the Santa varieties, Sinterklaas was always my favorite.  He provided light and shadow, life and death, and there was nothing like the spark of menace to produce compliant children. 

When I was small December 26 was both a let-down and a relief.  On the one hand, Santa brought me nothing but clothes.   On the other, he allowed me to live for another year.