The Sun Temple
by Greta Aart
Mid-August, I am seeking the Sun Temple with an ancient
scroll of map—once my grandfather’s. Rules say
that the temple lies hidden in the charcoal clouds,
appears only to travelers who carry
their ancestors’ passports. I have burned everything
that belongs to history, except this rice paper map
whose compass rose fluoresces when I bring
back childhood. Stuffing my duffel bag
with vegetarian sandwiches, memorizing chapters of sutras
with coral rosary beads, I thought that I would be alone
in this quest. But the roads are flocked for miles
with people! Families of three generations
in hot air balloons, transfixed in mid-flight
between pagoda and skyscraper. Parking in the skies,
they shriek from their wicker baskets, flapping
incandescent banners, “Pray for the Ozone at the Sun Temple.”
Fireworks smear the slate horizon. A group of school boys
surround me, dressed as Icarus, feather wings
waxed to their arms. They announce with heroic
audacity, “May the Sun God grant us modern myths to fly!”
I pause at a hermit’s rococo cave, now revamped
as a bed and breakfast. Serving Brazilian coffee
with anti-fatigue pills, the hermit jubilates
at his blossoming business. Sipping coffee, I sit
next to three Javanese farmers, scrawny and shabby,
hiding their heads under conical straw hats.
They point at two sacks of rice, their only passport
to the temple—“That’s all we’ve for our yields
last spring. … we will pray for monsoon rain,
and vacation for our Sun. And you?
What’s your passport?” Revealing my grandfather’s
map, I say that I want to snap photos
of a sprawling sunrise from a mountain peak.
Mouth agape, I tremble to realise
that I can no longer remember my grandfather—
I am merely a tourist.
