Escape Part 2: Or, “How I Became a Sundanese Woman”

The second day I violated my Ibu Laksmi-imposed-house arrest was the day of the kecapi performance with Pak Yeng. I woke up at 5:30am, showering and breakfasting before the rest of the household was awake. It was now 6am. I was about to call a cab and sneak out of the house when Ibu Laksmi sleepily emerged from her bedroom. When she realized what I was up to, she quickly woke up her husband and asked him to drive me. “Kasihan Dorcinda; dia masih sakit!” After Pak Muharam had showered and breakfasted, we left the house. It was a little past 7am, and the adrenaline rush I’d gotten from trying to escape the house without anybody’s notice had long faded, replaced with many-a-drowsy yawn, combined with the internal stress of realizing how late I would be.

When I arrived at Pak Yeng’s place, I remembered that I had forgotten to wear my headscarf. Even worse, I was wearing a short-sleeve shirt! I was immediately embarrassed, and shy to exit the car. It was the first time that I had ever not been fully covered in their presence. I reminded myself that I would have had to take the headscarf off to get in the traditional garb anyway. Pak Muharam laughed and told me to believe in myself (percaya diri). I took a deep breath, deciding to play my role as a good, little Christian American girl, waved goodbye to Pak Muharam, and sauntered on into the house. There were quite a few looks from the passerbys on the street who knew me and from the people in the house, but no one said anything. I inwardly thanked Pak Muharam for taking so long to drop me off, because by the time I arrived, everyone was waiting to leave, and they seemed less concerned with my non-Muslim looks than they were with shoving me into the hot pink kebaya (traditional dress) that they had chosen for me!

After crowding into a rented angkot (public transportation with hard benches), we arrived at the performance venue. We took a detour to put on our make-up and finish the costuming process on the second floor of a mosque. Since it was a house of worship, there were no mirrors. That meant that I couldn’t see what was going on when Pak Yeng’s wife and daughter-in-law descended on me with bags of make-up, hairpieces, combs and hairspray. Oh the amount of hairspray! I had to rely on the whisperings of the dancers and musicians as they witnessed the process. “Cantik!” “Seperti Barbie!” I had a certain idea of what was going on, as I had once participated as an attendant at a Javanese circumcision ceremony back in 2003, Yogya. But Pak Yeng’s wife’s excited whispers of “Now you are becoming a real Sundanese woman” filled me with curiosity. Finally the process was finished. I picked up a mirror, glanced at myself, and immediately laid it back down again. The person staring back was no longer me! I took the mirror and looked again. This time I could see a little of myself. I definitely fit the image of a Sundanse kecapi player. Everyone crowded around me. That’s when the pictures started. I had just wanted to get a picture of my new looks to mail back to my folks, but then all the boys wanted to take pictures with me and pretend they were my husband. With all our get-up, we certainly looked like we were about to get married!

The performance went really well, despite the embarrassment of having to endure the M.C. constantly reiterating that the kecapi player had come all the way from America. This made a lot of people interested in getting to know me afterwards and inviting me to their houses! Don’t worry, they were the Ibu-Ibu type (housemoms). One of the comments I often hear is: “Oh you should come to my house and meet my son. He wants to study in America and needs the work on his English!” Uh huh. Yeah, right. We played for a couple of hours, mixing kecapi kawih songs with the occasional jaipongan (sexy traditional dance) number. And then it was over. I’d been to a lot of Indonesian weddings, but I never thought that I would be able to participate in one as a musician! When I returned home, Ibu Laksmi and the gang were all taken aback with the get-up, and immediately dragged me to a photo studio to get the memory officially imprinted for all time. Which is another embarrassing event if you ever have to endure it. “Move around, try to look like a model!” What the heck am I suppose to do? Anyway, at least I have the photo for my mom.