The Sawangs, on the other hand, idly hugged the posts of their long house. It was too hot to sleep under the corrugated, ceiling-less roof, but they were too exhausted to go back to work. Quite the dilemma.
The Sarong people, as I refer to them, spent all day and night out at sea. Soon enough, the months ending in -ber would be here, and the winds would be too powerful. The dry season was their opportunity to gather money.
The Malays got grungier and spent a lot of time at home. None of them owned refrigerators. Once in a while their children could be seen passing along the main road carrying a block of ice and flavored syrup to make cold drinks.
The stuffy atmosphere didn't lift until late at night. As dawn approached, the temperature fell drastically, testing the faith of the Prophet Muhammad's followers, challenging them to get out of their beds and head to the mosque for subuh prayer.
For the past few days, Lintang was cheerful as usual, but exhausted on account of the condition of his bicycle. The chain, which often snapped, was getting shorter because a link had to be removed each time it broke. The tires kept going flat. Then he had to push his bicycle the entire way to school. Finally, it could no longer be used.
With no other choice, Lintang had to walk dozens of kilometers to school. There was a shortcut, but it was very dangerous—you had to cut through a swamp, which was home to many crocodile jaws. The middle of the swamp was chest-deep and you had to swim. But if he had to walk to school, that was the road Lintang had to trudge in order to arrive on time.
Lintang often told stories about how, when he went down into the swamp, dozens of sunbathing crocodiles would follow with their sights set on him. For that reason, before he left for school, he always bathed himself in betel water—a traditional antiseptic.
When he got to the water, he bundled his clothes and books in plastic and held them up high as he waded through the water, and when he had to swim, he clenched the plastic with his teeth. He constantly glanced all around him for crocodiles.
Today, Lintang arrived sopping wet from his head down to his toes. During his escape from crocodiles, his bundle of plastic had spilled open. He stood dazed in front of the classroom door. Bu Mus invited him in. He was happy to study even though his clothes were wet.
After school, Lintang approached me. His forlorn expression was, like the elongated dry season, highly uncharacteristic. I was surprised; sullenness was not one of Lintang's traits.
"What's wrong, buddy?" I asked while trying my hardest to smile. "Why so sad?"
Lintang took something out of the pocket of his shorts. A handkerchief. I remembered seeing his mother hold it when we got our report cards. He unfolded the handkerchief, revealing a ring.
"This is the wedding ring my father gave my mother," he said shakily. "My mother doesn't want me to miss school because of the bicycle. She said I have to study hard so I can win the Academic Challenge."
I was stunned.
"She asked that I sell this ring for money to buy a new bicycle chain."
Lintang's eyes were glassy. My chest tightened.
We left for the market. The 18 karat ring was weighed on a portable scale: three grams. The low quality of gold made it look like an imitation, but it was Lintang's family's most precious possession. The ring sold for just about 125,000 Rupiah, at that time about 50 U.S. dollars—just enough to buy a bicycle chain and two tires.
It was very difficult for Lintang to let go of his mother's wedding ring. He clutched it tightly. A Bun, the gold dealer, had to pry his fingers open one by one to take the ring. When Lintang let go of the ring, he let his tears go as well, and they streamed down his face.
"You repay your mother's sacrifice by winning that Academic Challenge, Boi!" I said boisterously, hoping he would forget his sadness. Boi is a nickname for close friends among Belitong-Malay boys. Lintang looked at me earnestly, "I promise, Boi."
Still in front of the gold store, we changed the bike's chain and tires. I stared at him. He had just made his second promise. Oh, how I loved my friend.
Lintang and I soon forgot about the heartrending sale of his mother's wedding ring. All life's sadness and weariness had to be left behind, or at least set aside, because our class had big plans: camping.
While the PN School kids rode their blue bus to Tanjong Pandan for recreation, visited the zoo or museum, or went on verloop—Dutch for vacation—with their parents to Jakarta, we went to Pangkalan Punai Beach. It was about 60 kilometers away, and we made our way there in a lively flock, riding bicycles.
Even though we visited Pangkalan Punai every year, I never grew tired of the place. Each time I stood at the edge of the beach I felt surprised, probably like Alexander the Great's troops when they first discovered India. Where the dozens of hectares of sand met the forest, I found a different sense of beauty. That's what I would say about my main impression of Pangkalan Punai.
As evening approached, I lingered happily, sitting at the top of a hill to the west. I listened to the faint sounds of fishermen's children, boys and girls, kicking buoys, playing football without goalposts. Their shouts were peaceful.
At my back was a savannah, as wide as the sea itself. Thousands of pipits settled on the tall grass, shouting amongst themselves, fighting for a place to sleep. From gaps between rows of coconut trees, I saw the giant boulders that are Pangkalan Punai's trademark, fencing in the lustrous blue South China Sea. Brackish river streams wound and curved from afar until finally merging with the sea, like flows of melted silver.
As night drew near, the orange and red rays of the sun fell below the nanga-leaf roofs of the stilted homes sticking out among lush santigi leaves. Smoke billowed from hearths burning coconut fibers to chase away bugs that appeared around magrib. The smoke, accompanied by the call to prayer, drifted slowly over the village like a ghost, faintly crawled up the branches of the sweet fruit bintang trees, was swept away by the wind, and then was engulfed by the vast sea. Small buds of fire in oil lamps danced silently behind the small windows of the stilted houses scattered about below.
The enchantment of Pangkalan Punai hung over me until it brought me a dream. It moved me to write a poem.
I Dreamt I Saw Heaven
Truly, the third night in Pangkalan Punai
I dreamt I saw heaven
It turns out that heaven is not grandiose,
but a small castle in the middle of the forest
There were no beautiful maidens as is said in the scriptures
I walked along a small, narrow bridge
A beautiful woman with a pure face greeted me "This is heaven," she said
She invited me to walk through a field of flowers under the colorful low clouds
Towards the veranda of the castle In the veranda,
I saw small lights hidden behind the curtain
Each light cut through the thick grass in the garden
Beautiful, unspeakably beautiful
Heaven was so very quiet
But I wanted to stay here
Because I remembered your promise,
God If I came walking
You would meet me running
As part of our camping program, we had to turn in an assignment—a composition, painting or hand-made piece composed of materials collected around the beach. With that poem, for the first time, I received an art score a little bit better than Mahar's; it was the first and last time that would happen.
Mahar hadn't received the highest score in art, as he usually did, and it was all because of a flock of mysterious birds the people of Belitong call pelintang pulau birds—literally meaning island crossing birds.
Pelintang pulau birds were attention grabbers anywhere, but nowhere more so than on the coast. Some thought they were supernatural creatures. The name of those birds sent shivers through the hearts of coastal people because of the myths surrounding them and the messages they bore. If a flock appeared in a village, fisherman would promptly cancel plans to sail; to them, the arrival of these mysterious birds port
ends a storm at sea.
Whatever those birds actually were, Mahar claimed he saw them while doing research for his art assignment, which he had decided would be a painting. He scrambled back to the tent to tell us what he had just seen. We dashed into the forest to witness one of the rarest species in Belitong Island's rich fauna.
Unfortunately, all we saw were empty branches, several longtailed monkey babies and a vacant sky. Mahar had trapped himself. Mockery ensued.
"If someone eats too many bintang fruits, he can get drunk, Mahar—blurred vision, a rambling mouth," Samson pulled the trigger. The derision began.
"Seriously, Samson, I saw a flock of five pelintang pulau birds!"
"The sea's depth is immeasurable, a lie's depth is unpredictable," Kucai jabbed with a simple verse.
Despair emerged on Mahar's face. His eyes searched the branches above. I felt bad seeing him like that. How could I defend him? Without a witness to back him up, he was powerless. I looked deep into Mahar's eyes. I believed that he had just seen those sacred birds. How lucky! Too bad Mahar was unable to convince us because of his own reputation for lying. That is the problem with being a liar: When you finally utter one truth amongst millions of lies, others will still think your truth is merely the fruit of yet another fabrication.
"Don't get caught up in lies and imagination, friend. You know, lying is forbidden to us. The prohibition appears over and over again in our Muhammadiyah Ethics book," Sahara lectured.
The situation grew chaotic as news that Mahar had seen pelintang pulau birds spread to the village, prompting fisherman to cancel their plans to go to sea. Bu Mus felt bad because she didn't know how to pacify the situation. Mahar was cornered.
But believe it or not, that night, the winds blew furiously, turning our tent upside down. We saw lightning flash violently over the sea. Black clouds swirled menacingly in the sky. We ran for our lives to find shelter in one of the villager's homes.
"Maybe you really saw pelintang pulau birds, Mahar," Syahdan said shakily.
Mahar didn't say anything. I knew that the word maybe was inappropriate. The storm backed his story up and the fishermen thanked him, but his own friends still doubted him by using the word maybe. His feelings didn't hurt any less; they were at a level that made him feel like persona non grata, an outcast.
The next day, Mahar made a painting called Pelintang Pulau Flock. It made for an interesting theme. Five birds were portrayed as obscure shapes darting as quick as lightning through the gaps of meranti treetops. The background was a gloomy cluster of clouds about to storm. The sea's expanse was painted dark blue while the water's surface glinted, reflecting the flashes of lightning above it. It was riveting.
Rendered as amorphous streaks of yellowish-green, Mahar's birds moved with great speed. If glanced at casually, it vaguely looked like they made up five flocks, but the impression was of colorful strokes of fire. A truly spine-tingling painting.
The idea behind Mahar's painting was to try and capture the essence of the mysterious pelintang pulau birds. In presenting those magical birds, he made clear our limited knowledge of them, their preference to keep away from man, as well as the curious myths that animate the minds of coastal people. For Mahar, the anatomy of the pelintang pulau birds was irrelevant. On the other hand, Samson, Kucai and Sahara held the opinion that the birds' shapes were unclear because Mahar hadn't actually seen them. Mahar retreated into cynicism and his mood soured.
Disappointed because the honesty of his work was in question, Mahar turned in his assignment late. That was the reason his score was lowered—because he exceeded the deadline, not because of aesthetic considerations.
"This time, I didn't give you the best score in order to teach you a lesson," said Bu Mus to an apathetic Mahar.
"It is not because your work lacked quality; no matter what kind of work we do, we must have discipline. Talented people with a bad attitude are useless."
I felt this was a fair enough opinion. On the other hand, my classmates and I did not take my prestigious score in art as the birth of a new class artist. Our big shot artist was still Mahar, the one and only.
The eccentric Mahar lost no sleep over the score he received for his works of art. More so now than usual, he was very busy. He was in the middle of brainstorming about the artistic concept for the August 17th carnival—Independence Day.
Chapter 17
Love at the Shabby Sundry Shop
AH, ADOLESCENCE was great.
At school, lessons became more useful. We learned how to make salty eggs, embroidery, and menata janur—a Malay wedding decoration. Better yet, we started stumbling through the English language: good this, good that, excuse me, I beg your pardon, and I am fine, thank you. The most enjoyable task was learning how to translate songs. It turned out the old song Have I Told You Lately That I Love You had a beautiful meaning.
Its lyrics, more or less, tell a story about a young child who always hated being sent by his teacher to buy chalk, until one day, he left in irritation to buy it, unaware that destiny was waiting to mercilessly ambush him at the fish market.
Buying chalk was without a doubt the least enjoyable class chore. Another chore we really hated was watering the flowers. The various ferns, from the Platycerium coronarium to the dozens of pots of Bu Mus' beloved Adiantum, had to be treated delicately, as if they were expensive Chinese porcelain. Careless handling of the flowers was a serious violation.
"This is part of your education," Bu Mus insisted earnestly.
The problem was, getting water from the well behind the school was hard work, even for coolies. Aside from having to fill two big buckets and scramble back with them on your shoulders, you also had to face the creepy old well. The well was so deep its bottom couldn't be seen, like it was connected to another world, or perhaps a pit filled with demons. Anyways the burden of life felt much heavier on mornings when you had to lower your head into that well.
Only when I watered the Canna Striped Beauties did I feel a slight consolation. To think that such a beautiful flower originates from the damp wilderness of the Brazilian hills. It is still in the Apocynaceae family, which is why it slightly resembles the allamanda, but the white stripes on its yellow flowers are a distinctive feature that no other Canna possesses. Its plump, green, creeping leaves bear a striking contrast to the color gradation in its blossoms year-round, emanating a primeval beauty. The Persians called them heaven's flowers. When they bloom, all the world smiles. They are emotional flowers, so one must water them carefully. Not everyone can grow them. It's been said that only one with a green thumb and a gentle and pure heart can cultivate them, and that was Bu Mus, our teacher.
We had a few pots of Canna Striped Beauties, and we agreed to place them in the most distinguished position among the daun picisan and succulents, which paled in comparison. When the season arrived and they bloomed simultaneously, they looked like a layered cake placed on a serving tray.
I was always hasty in watering the flowers so I could just get it over with, but when I got to the Cannas and their neighbors, I tried to take it slowly. I enjoyed daydreaming, guessing what people would imagine if they were in the middle of this mini paradise. Would they feel like they were in a prehistoric paradise?
I looked around the little flower garden located right in front of our principal's office. There was a little path of square stones leading to the garden, its left side overflowing with Monstera, Nolina, Violces, peas, cemara udang, caladium and tall begonias that didn't need watering. The flowers, unarranged, were rich with nectar, crowded with brightly colored unknown plants and various wild grasses and bushes.
A gourd vine snaked up our bell's post. Like a giant arm touching the wooden-planked walls of our school, it was unrestrained by the roof shingles hanging loose from their nails and the pomegranate twigs shading the office roof. The young vines of the gourd dangled in front of the office window, you could reach out and touch them. Javanese finches frequently hung from them. All morning long, the pl
ace was abuzz with the sounds of beetles and honeybees. Whenever I really listened, after awhile, my body felt weightless, floating in air.
Curiously, our garden somehow appeared both cared for and neglected. The background of the garden was our collapsing school, like an empty building forgotten by time, accentuating the impression of a wild paradise.
If it weren't for the horrifying well of evil spirits, watering the flowers could very well have been a fun job.
But the job of buying the chalk was even more horrifying. Sinar Harapan Shop—Ray of Hope Shop, the one and only place that sold chalk in East Belitong, was very far away. It was located in a dirty fish market. If you didn't have a strong stomach, you'd vomit from the stinking smell of salted radishes, fermented bean paste, starch, shrimp paste, jengkol beans and kidney beans deserted in rusty bins in front of the store. Once inside, that smell mixed with the odor of plastic toy packages, the eye-watering scent of mothballs, the stenches of oil paint and bike tires strewn about the store, and the stink of stale tobacco that had been left unsold for years.
These unsold goods were kept around because the owner of the shop suffered from a psychological condition known as hoarding—mental illness number 28—which was a strange hobby of collecting useless junk and being unwilling to throw any of it away. The accumulation of stench was amplified by the odor of the Sawang coolies' sweat as they mindlessly went back and forth with pickaxes, speaking in their own tongue, with sacks of wheat flour slung leisurely over their shoulders.
That morning it was mine and Syahdan's turn to visit that grungy shop. We got on the bike and made a serious deal—Syahdan would start out pedaling with me on the back until we reached the halfway mark, a Chinese grave;
we'd switch there, and I would pedal to the market, and we'd do the same thing on the way home. There was one more finicky condition: every time we came to an incline, we'd get off and take turns pushing the bicycle, only switching after meticulously counted steps.
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