Brothers Istiawan.
Not sure we can use that. The Javanese have no surnames. Both of my first and last names are given names. Istiawan is my father’s last name. It too is a given name.
During my business trip to Tokyo, I visited my brother’s new home in Kamakura. He married a Japanese. It was a midweek bank holiday. We took the Tokaido Line to Ofuna, then the Shonan Monorail. He picked us up at the station with a red Mazda Demio.
It was the first time since last year I saw him. I waved and said hi. Out of my reflex, I walked past him and put our luggage in the boot.
I forgot to hug him.
Our family don’t hug. Or our parents hug, but always awkward. Like something you do because everyone does that with family or loved ones. Just something to tick on a checklist.
It was Dinda who hugged him. For her, hugging comes naturally. I had to set my mind to hug him. Like a beginner in a dance class, wary of stepping on their dance partner.
I knew my hug, our hug, was awkward. We are the sons of our father and mother, after all.
‘You bought a car?’ I was concerned about how he manages his expenses with mortgage and everything.
‘It is Mako’s mum’s. She can’t renew her driver’s license anymore. So she gave the car to us.’
His mother-in-law moved from Hiroshima to Kamakura. Sold her house and moved into an apartment a few blocks from their home. It makes life easier for all. Mako can come quickly if anything happens. Her mum can cook for herself and them. And they both still have their own space.
He educated me that Japan has a very low interest rate. The homeownership loan he took is only 0.4% for 35 years. Even Mako’s mum, in her 70s, can still take out a loan to buy the new apartment. He found a good contractor and got another loan to renovate the house.
Tias and Mako’s home is like a house in Ghibli films. No fence, no gate. Signs of a safe neighbourhood. A signpost of ‘Takimoto & Saputro’ with cats ornament is at the door. Saputro is my brother’s last name. Again, not a family name.
They bought an old house and renovated it. Like most Japanese homes, they are tiny but efficient. It is a two storey house. More than enough for a couple with two cats.
A tatami room is inside the living room. It is another Japanese ingenuity in making the most of the space: you can use the tatami room for sitting, yoga, or sleeping. They prepared futons and blankets, it became our room for the night.
We unpacked. Offloaded the cobek Tias asked us to bring. We handcarried that 10kgs of stone mortar and pestle. He wants to make sambal.
Momomi seemed to catch that we smelled of cats. She demanded us to pay our dues as humans: we stroked and scratched her. Mochako was rather suspicious. She was rescued from a breeder, thus her cautious approach to new humans.
Mako told us that the ofuro is ready. I got the honour to take the first dip (the hot water is used several times, and family members usually take turns in bathing—based on seniority). Tias reminded me to shower first before bathing.
Of course. Does he think I’m gross?
In Japan, the bathrooms are insulated to protect the walls from humidity and mould. It also makes them easier to clean. The home is squeaky clean, tidy, and organised. A Dyson vacuum cleaner and a vacuum bot are among the cleaning equipment. The cat litter is odourless.
Japan is an embodiment of a first world country. Nothing is cheap, but everything is of a high value. Thanks to a relatively equal society. Some said it is changing. Capitalism and consumerism, in the end, are rationalisation. The goal is the cheapest items with the highest profit margins. Made in Japan, as Made in Germany—the shokunin—would soon give in to less quality for more quantity. The wage-inflation gap is increasing. The aging population and capital exports make young people work more.
Our childhood home in Jakarta, the Nimun House, is in a state of disrepair. The bathrooms have no doors. Lime and grime on the water closet and basins. The floors would black your feet. Mosquitoes and mould. The air is humid, the lighting dim. Ventilations are not well designed. The furnitures are hand me downs, mismatched. Clutters are hoarded.
It has always been that way. A brick-a-brack of construction, added on top of each other with little or no forethought.
I am glad that Tias’ Kamakura home is a far cry from our childhood home.
We had dinner at a local sushi restaurant Osakanatei. The proprietors are an old couple. The husband cooks and the wife waits the tables. They don’t speak English, so my brother interpreted. Most, if not all, of the patrons are locals. The proprietress sat with guests. She showed a flyer of a play, set in the Italian Renaissance Era, at the community centre. She’d be in that play, as a dowager.
How cute. So first world. Where senior citizens can work and have meaningful leisure time.
The next morning we had a Japanese fishermen’s breakfast at Enoshima Koya. We were the first to queue. The place is so popular, we needed to arrive early (the Japanese like to queue even more than the English). As a rice boy, I say it was the best breakfast I ever had in my life.
I dared my brother to send our picture together to Bapak. He didn’t see the harm, so he did.
‘Is Suar coming to Japan for vacation or business?,’ father replied.
‘He’s on a business trip to Tokyo.’
‘Oh. Happy that you all can meet up. Say hi to Mako.’
End of conversation .
Tias expected that Bapak would show a certain level of curiosity on what your sons are up to. Maybe even being offended because I didn’t tell him that I was going to Japan. But listening is not a masculine trait, as our father exemplified.
We went back to Kamakura home. Mako ordered a reformer, she’s training for pilates instructor certification. The delivery guy just dropped the package at the front door.
‘I am not paid enough to break my back carrying that heavy load inside.’
Not all Japanese are omotenashi. Should I say that we’d pay more if he did? But tipping is offensive here.
Good thing I lift weights. Tias lent me his work gloves. After we put that 100kg mainframe, Tias wanted to install the entire parts. He said he saw in a YouTube video it takes only 8 minutes.
I told him that the video shows an installation by a trained handyman—with cut scenes. Mako said he tends to underestimate how much time is needed. In anyway, he would install the reformer later.
We changed into trail shoes, trekked the Hiromachi Greenery. I climbed a giant Enoki tree. I imagined Totoro was sleeping down there. We met another group of trekkers. We met a group of locals who lived in Jakarta. We exchanged pleasantries in English, a little Japanese and a little Indonesian.
We stopped by a coffee shop cum library, Book Cafe So Common. I love how respectful the Japanese are to peace and quiet. The patrons were stylish, engrossed in their reading or chatting with proper volume and tone. Someone was wearing a black Leica M (from the ISO dial, it is an M10 or 11). Not many English books are available. I took and browsed a photobook, Appearance.
We sat by the fireplace. On cold days or nights, they would fire it with wood. But it was a warm autumn day. Warm enough not to wear a jacket, cold enough not to be sweating. A perfect weather.
The coffee shop is in the most expensive neighbourhood in Kamakura. The homes are big. Land Rovers parked in the garages.
We took a bus to Kotoku-in Temple, to see the Daibutsu (the Great Buddha Statue). Saw a Latin American pray, light an amber on incense, then made a cross sign across his body. Buddha would receive his prayer, not sure with Jesus or Yahweh/Allah. The Abrahamic God demands exclusivity.
Had lunch at Antico Rondino, a prosciutteria. The restaurant is in a traditional Japanese house. Our favourite Asian food is Japanese, and Italian for Western. I felt so grateful to be able to eat Italian a few blocks away from a Japanese temple. Too bad, the toilet is also European: bidetless. The restaurant should have stuck with Toto washlet.
We walked to the beach. It is not that tropical paradise-esque white sand and turquoise waters you find on travel brochures. It has the charm of an English seaside town (but with better weather and food). The shops are modelled after Hawaiian or Balinese styles. People surf, kite, or just walk. A group of international karatekas were training and posing. It was the golden hour. I felt like in Keane’s music video, ‘Sovereign Light Cafe’.
There is also a park with a baseball field. Fathers and sons or daughters played catch. I caught an off field ball and threw it back to them.
A good place to raise children. I thought. Expensive, maybe, but a good place.
I was tempted to ask Tias and Mako on that subject. I imagine a cute mixed race nephew or niece. But as a child-free adult, I refrained from asking that.
We took the tram back. Packed our bags again, to return to Tokyo. Tias and Mako drove us to Ofuna station. We stopped by Awanouta for ramen dinner. Mako warned us that the dishes we ordered contained pork. Tias told her it was okay. She mistook us for our parents and extended family. We’re not halal people.
We our said goodbye at Ofuna Station. I told him again that he should not think about going back to Jakarta. No matter how our parents and family emotionally blackmail him to return.
Our mother wanted what most Indonesian mums wanted: a visit once a week (with grandchildren), a prayer time together, gatherings during Ramadan and Eid festivals.
But Tias’gaijin life is a better life. In a high income country, you are 1% rich if you are middle class. If anybody tells you money can’t buy happiness, they are spending it wrong.
A week after my business trip to Tokyo, it was our mother’s birthday. I know I should send something.
I did.
Should I come to visit her? I have postponed visiting since 2019. Pandemic, I told everyone.
I didn’t in the end.
Tias asked for a videocall with Nimun House.
Yes, videocall should suffice.
Tias and Mako dialled in from Kamakura. I from my home. We tried to have a conversation as a family.
Ibu was sleepy. Half-conscious. She slipped off from her chair, unable to remain on screen. She had a stroke last year, after a decade of losing her voice. She was on Xanax and Prozac, but always refused therapy. Relied on prayers. Now she is showing symptoms of dementia.
Bapak and our youngest brother Pasha—her only two dependants now—tried to animate her. Like a doll.
I told them about Kamakura home. How beautiful it is. The forest and the beach. Tias translated to Japanese from Indonesian for Mako.
Bapak replied, ‘Oh nice. Why didn’t you visit it during your business trip to Tokyo.’
‘He did. I sent you our picture,’ Tias said.
‘Oh. It’s nice that your home is near parks.’
‘It’s a forest, not just parks. We trekked. And a beach nearby,’ I said. ‘People do wind-surfing too.’
Bapak did wind-surfing when he was young. As a little kid, I saw him surf at Ancol.
I showed him pictures from n the Lightroom app. But I realised he was already gone before I finished showing them. Only Pasha was still there. Ibu went asleep before the screen.
Silence. I couldn’t find things to say.
I pride myself on being a conversationalist. But my parents always disagreed with that self evaluation. They said I’m not much of a social person. Too stubborn and materialistic.
I saw a hole in the ceiling behind Ibu. I asked Pasha, ‘Is that a hole in the ceiling?’
He didn’t reply. He talked about his gig. Giving his labour to a friend’s business: supervising the loading and unloading of events organisation.
I can’t remember what we talked about after that. I could have pressed on, don’t change the subject. But I didn’t. All I remember was Billie Eilish’s ‘What I Was Made For’ playing in my head.
And that hole in the ceiling.
