About a decade ago I moved to a town on an island in Southeast Asia for doctoral research. I was a lone, female grad student in an entirely different world wanting to learn about entirely different ways of speaking and being. I had to radically recreate myself through a new language, a new way of dressing, a new attitude, to succeed at this extreme rite of academic, intellectual passage.
I made this radical move toward higher education late in life. In my pre-academic life, I had been an aerial stunt woman, a bartender, a drug dealer, a sex worker, a hotel room cleaner, a tour manager for punk bands, a waitress, a farm laborer, a harm reduction counselor, among other occupations on four different continents before I decided I wanted to be an academic and encourage new generations of students to take responsibility for the state of our world. It was this dedication to my academic goals that drove me to transform myself into a calm, modest, researcher. Despite the extreme contrasts between my previous life and this one, the change wasn't difficult. I had good teachers.
Lindur was one of these teachers. She was somewhere around 78 years old when we first met and lived alone in a tiny bamboo and stone shack with no electricity or plumbing. She had been a singer in the sultan's orchestra for 64 years. Having achieved the highest rank possible, her monthly salary was US$10 per month. In her prime, Lindur was a favorite of three sultans and was now the trusted elder of the court singers. She has been alone in this shack for over 20 years, after her seventh husband died. When she had wealth, it was prodigious; and she spent it all on extravagances including drinking and gambling.
I became like a daughter to this lively old woman, a grateful audience for her stories. Through Lindur I also became a singer of the royal court. Each Wednesday and Sunday for two years I entered the palace walls, dressed in full court attire, as an apprentice singer in the orchestra.
But this is not a story about singing with elderly women in a foreign country. This is a story about magic, love potions, sex, and rituals linked to local versions of spiritualism. It describes an amazing adventure into local sexuality -- not for salacious interest -- but rather for the fascinating evidence it provides. Love potions and magic really work!
Twice a week before the tropical sun burned high over the city, I routinely dressed in my palace gear, and on my old-fashioned iron bicycle, I'd traverse the city toward the servants' entrance of the palace. Off-stage areas for royal musicians were segregated into a space for women and a separate area for men. I did not know most of the men as we almost never congregated or even spoke. On stage we were too busy to chat. As the only foreigner in the women's group, I clearly stood out. But by minding my own business and following the lead of Lindur, I never expected anything would go wrong.
Diligently focused on my research, my interests were in the conversations the women had, the topics, their linguistic structure, politeness strategies, rights of speaking, and other communication issues. Naturally, I was also very focused on the humor, the bawdiness, the gossip, the camaraderie as well as the competitiveness displayed in ordinary conversation between women. I loved this work and felt thoroughly privileged for the access I was given to this hidden world. Beyond the women's enclave, however, the men's world had other things going on that were completely unknown to me.
One morning, as I was just getting on my bicycle to head out, a tall, skinny, bronze-skinned young man was waiting for me by the gate. Despite the fact that I did not know his name and he was someone I had never before noticed or spoken with at the palace, my immediate sense was that of meeting a dear old friend. The best way I can describe the experience was as if a photograph of him was planted in my brain so that seeing him waiting for me felt completely normal, expected, familiar, desirable, and even thrilling. It didn't matter that I had no idea who he was. I was excited to see him. He suggested we bike together to a sacred site for meditation and prayer. The palace musicians, of which he was one, are tasked with upholding spiritual rituals that are believed to be the source of the strength and longevity of the current line of sultans. I gladly agreed to ride with him.
I don't remember how I learned Jono's name or anything about him. Since our language of interaction was a very formal variety of the local language, intimate conversations were not easy. I did learn, however, that Jono was a practitioner of white magic. He insisted on white magic only and impressed upon me that black magic was a sin.
During the next several weeks, our bicycling together to sacred sites was an almost daily event. Sacred sites are most often cemeteries where people deemed historically or spiritually significant are buried. In and around this city there are many such pilgrimage sites where kings, martyrs, legendary people or fighters are buried. They are generally visited only at night.
When we arrived at the cemetery that first day together, it was midday and hot. Not a soul was visible. The only perceivable movement over a wide hillside of silent graves was the mottled light dancing to the breeze through the many gnarled, ageless champak trees. Jono took two sarongs out of his backpack and with a muttered apology to the occupant, placed one on the sandy ground over a grave. He invited me to sit; then he sat down next to me. In no time he had my dress pulled up and his hands inside my panties caressing my womanhood. What was even stranger, was the fact that I did not object. He had a power over me that only seemed bizarre and wrong in retrospect. At the time, I gladly accepted his touch and did not object to his lying me down, getting on top of me and slipping his cock inside me. The second sarong covered us, "to prevent sunburn", he said.
Kissing is not really done in this culture. The word for kiss is the same as the word for sniff as in take in someone's scent. We never kissed but Jono would bury his nose in my neck or my hair and take deep breaths. He would always be on top and his thrusts would last for maybe a half minute or so before he'd silently ejaculate, pull out, rearrange himself, cover me carefully in the sarong and sit up as if nothing had happened. He never touched my breasts either. He'd touch my vulva to make sure it was still there, I suppose, and immediately slip his cock inside me.
This rather awkward, short, yet strangely gratifying ritual was repeated almost daily in different sites around the city, always under the burning, midday sun, when no one else in their right mind would be outside. In cemeteries, at sacred trees in dense forests, in ruined temples to long dead kings, at magical springs on top of fog-shrouded mountains, Jono and I wrapped in sarongs engaged in our carnal activities safe in the knowledge that everyone else in town was taking an afternoon nap.
