GETTING LOST

-

That morning in Surabaya was bright. Sunlight pierced through the slits of the curtain in Siska’s rented room at Jetis Kulon 3, Wonokromo. The roaring sound of motorbikes and the shout of passing vegetable vendors served as a natural alarm, waking her from sleep.

She stretched lazily, then stared at the ceiling, where the paint was beginning to peel. It was a public holiday—campus was closed. But that didn’t mean she had no plans.

A few days earlier, Reni—a friend from her English Literature cohort at Universitas 17 Agustus 1945—had sent her a message.

"Sis, you have to check out the rare book exhibition at the Regional Archive Library, the one on the outskirts of town. It’s only a week long. The books are insane—there’s even a 1902 print of Shakespeare!"

Siska was immediately intrigued. She loved old books and was currently writing a paper on the evolution of Hamlet translations in Indonesia. Without much thought, she marked today for the trip.

The location was rather far. According to Reni, it was in a former military compound that had been turned into a national archive branch in Surabaya. It wasn’t yet detailed on Google Maps, so Siska relied on directions from a blog and some screenshots Reni had sent.

After a quick shower and a breakfast of instant noodles, she dressed in jeans, a white t-shirt, and a thin cardigan. She slung her backpack over her shoulder, packed with notes, a power bank, and a water bottle. Eagerly, she stepped out of her boarding house and waited for a passing angkot.

She took an angkot from Wonokromo to Joyoboyo terminal, then switched to a small bus heading west. The road started to look unfamiliar. The street names on the signs were ones she had never seen before. Even the bus stops the driver called out sounded odd: Ngelom, Gedeg Wetan, and Sumberjo Barat.

Siska began to feel uneasy.

"Is this still Surabaya, or am I in Mojokerto already?"

When the bus stopped at a large intersection flanked by sugarcane fields, the driver shouted, “Sumberjo! Anyone for Sumberjo!”

Siska stood up. She thought the area matched one of the photos from the blog Reni had shown her. But as soon as she got off and the bus pulled away, she realized—there were no signs for a library, no archive building, not even another soul in sight.

Only sugarcane fields and a dirt road stretching north.

Google Maps suddenly failed to load. No signal. The sound of crickets echoed from the bushes. No one to ask.

Siska stood at the side of the road, uncertain. Silence. No food stalls, no motorcycle taxis. Just a cloudy sky and humid air beginning to cling to her skin.

That’s when she realized: she was truly lost.

…

Siska walked hesitantly along the gravel road, not knowing where it led. Her shoes were dusty, sweat began to bead on her forehead, and the sun that had once been warm was now hidden behind fast-moving dark clouds. The air turned damp, as if rain was imminent.

Several motorbikes passed, but all sped by without glancing at her. No public transport. No road signs. She opened her phone, but there was still no signal. Even emergency calls failed.

She swallowed hard. Panic began to crawl in, slow but certain.



“Okay, calm down. No panic. Just keep walking until I find someone, or a shop, or… anything,” she told herself.

A few minutes later, she found a narrow path that seemed to lead to a settlement. At the end of the path, she saw the shadow of a large mango tree and the tin roofs of a few houses. She hurried toward them and entered a narrow lane flanked by bamboo fences

and overgrown bushes.


In front of a wooden house with a low terrace, an elderly man was fixing the chain of an old bicycle. His hair was white as ash, and his face was lined with the years he had lived.

Siska approached slowly. “Excuse me, Sir…”

The man turned and smiled. “Well, what is it, young lady? You look lost.”

“I… uh, I think I got off at the wrong stop. I was trying to get to the Regional Archive Library.”

The old man chuckled softly. “That library is far, dear. You should’ve gotten off at Jatirunggo, not here in Sumberjo. From here, it’s over an hour’s walk.”

“Is there an ojek I can take, Sir?”

“There are no motorcycle taxis here. Only a few people own bikes, and even then, they’re usually out working in the fields or in town.”

Siska lowered her head, feeling foolish. She should have checked the route more carefully this morning.

“Come in first. Have some tea. You must be tired,” the old man said, opening the bamboo gate.

Siska hesitated for a moment, but desperation pushed her forward. She nodded and followed the man to the house's terrace. Inside, the house was simple but clean. Wooden walls, cement floor, and a small shelf filled with old books that made Siska’s eyes widen.

The man poured tea into a clear glass.

“What’s your name, young lady?”

“Siska, Sir. I study English Literature. From UNTAG.”

“Ah, UNTAG! I know it. My son studied there—civil engineering. Now he works in Kalimantan. I live here alone now.”

Siska smiled. “What’s your name, Sir?”

“Martono. But just call me Pak Marto. I’m just a villager, but I love books.”

Siska looked at the shelf in the corner. There were Pramoedya novels, W.S. Rendra’s poetry collections, and an English-Indonesian dictionary from 1987.

“How did you get all these books, Sir?”

Pak Marto smiled proudly. “I used to work at a printing press. Often got leftover prints. It would’ve been a waste to throw them out. Back then, local kids would come here to read.”

Siska felt like she had found an oasis. Amid the isolation and anxiety, she encountered a place and a person connected to her world—books, literature, and peace.

They talked for a long time. Pak Marto shared stories of his youth in Surabaya, about the revolution, about radios, and about how he fell in love with literature after secretly reading This Earth of Mankind.

Evening descended. Light rain began to patter on the tin roof. Siska leaned back on the wooden chair, staring out.

“Sir, how will I get back later?” she asked.

“I’ll walk you to the main road. If you’re strong enough, we’ll go on foot. If not, I’ll ask to borrow my neighbor’s bike. But let’s wait until the rain stops, okay?”

Siska nodded. In her heart, she murmured, Maybe this isn’t a failed day. Maybe it’s a day I’ll remember forever.

 


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