Her face was covered in the grooves that time had given her. Her skin was a color that my skin could never achieve. On her head she wore a yellow scarf with a floral pattern and her body was covered in vibrant blues and reds. They did not match one another, but they were not meant to. Each garment had its own story. If they were to blend together, It would take away from their life and strength. Many teeth were missing from her mouth but she maintained a gentle smile with her sunken lips at all times. She was small in stature, but strong. She carries her entire livelihood slung in a scarf over her shoulder. Her calm eyes meet mine. I smile a huge smile but her face is unwavering with that constant smirk as she got up and stepped down from the battered bus.
They call her Java, with a people who are feisty and simple, but a land that is elegant and passionate.
The buildings that stand among her variety of terraced greens are bright and full of life. It is a simple life, similar to those who live and work in them. Their colorful nature makes their simplicity hot and gorgeous. Their life creates an effervescent border to the mountains rimming with jungle life in the background.
“Indonesia is still an adventure.” The ghost writer tells us as we are swapping travel tales on our quaint, hostel balcony.
The lively land and the people who are not bothered by conforming have proven to be just that, adventure.
As the woman walks diligently toward one of these pulsating houses I try my hardest to remember every detail. I want to share this moment of modest, unadulterated, life with those who care to know about it.