Right behind them were future professionals, students wearing outfits inspired by their aspirations. Many of them wore white coats, stethoscopes and thick glasses. Surely those children wanted to be doctors when they grew up.
Then there were the engineers wearing overalls and carrying various devices, such as test pens, screwdrivers and different kinds of keys. A couple of students brought thick scientific books, microscopes and telescopes; I guess they wished to be professors, scientists and astronomers when they grew up. The rest were pilots, stewardesses and ship captains. The PN School's parade was topped off with a marching band, the part I loved the most. The bellowing of dozens of trombones sounded like the thunderous explosion of trumpets on the judgment day. The pounding of drums shook my heart in my chest.
The PN School's marching band was not your average marching band. It was fully sponsored by PN. The choreographer, stylist and music conductor were specially hired from Jakarta for the occasion. There were at least 80 students playing in the marching band, including the attractive color guards. Without PN School's marching band, the August 17th Carnival would lose its soul.
The climax of the carnival was when the marching band formed two circulating squares while saluting the VIP podium. Without fail, they always snatched first place for the most prestigious category. They simply dominated; no one ever beat them. The supreme award for Best Art Performance had been eternally displayed for at least 40 years in the prominent glass display case at the PN School.
The VIP podium was the place for the most respect able attendees, including the head of PN operations. Also in attendance were his secretary, who was always carrying a walkie-talkie, along with a couple of PN managers, village heads, wealthy sundry shop owners, the post master, the BRI Bank supervisor, the Sawang tribe chief, the Sarong people's chief, the Chinese community leader, the shamans and various other "heads," all accompanied by their doting wives. The podium was positioned in the center of the market, and most of the crowd gathered around it.
The audience was likely to watch the carnival close to the podium, because that is where the carnival participants gave their ultimate performances. An intimidating jury also sat on the podium ready to judge the performances.
For most of us from Muhammadiyah, the carnival was an unpleasant, if not traumatic, experience. Our carnival performance was merely comprised of a bunch of children led by two village teachers holding a banner with the symbol of our school. The banner was made of very cheap fabric and drooped sadly between two yellow bamboo sticks. Behind them lined up three rows of students wearing sarongs, traditional Muslim caps and Islamic outfits. They represented the founders of Sarekat Islam—the first Indonesian intellectual Muslim organization—and the founding fathers of Muhammadiyah.
Every year for the carnival, Samson donned a dam gatekeeper's uniform. He certainly did not do so because that's what he aspired to be, a dam keeper like his father, but because it was the only carnival-ready costume he had. Syahdan wore a fisherman's outfit, also in accordance with his father's profession. A Kiong, every carnival, chose an outfit like the gong keeper of a shaolin temple.
Trapani had put on high boots, overalls and a helmet. The uniform belonged to his father. He had dressed up as a PN laborer. Kucai, who lacked both boots and a helmet, was determined to join the parade in overalls. When asked, he explained that he was a low-level PN laborer on leave.
To be more dramatic, Syahdan brought along a sack of dragnet. Lintang blew a whistle because he was a football referee, and I ran around, back and forth, as the assistant referee. One handsome student had dressed very neatly, sporting black shoes and dark trousers, a long belt, a white longsleeved shirt, and carrying a big briefcase. That remarkable student was in fact Harun. It was unclear what profession he represented. In my eyes, he looked like someone who'd been kicked out by his motherin-law.
That's the way we appeared year after year. It didn't symbolize our aspirations, because we didn't dare have any. It was suggested to every student to use their father's work uniform because we didn't have the funds to rent carnival costumes. Accordingly, we represented the jobs of the marginalized community, and in this context, Mahar was dressed as neatly as Harun. Mahar waved to the spectators a retiree ID card, as his father was already retired, while Sahara reluctantly sat out because her father had been laid off.
When passing the VIP podium, we walked quickly and prayed for the parade to be over. There was no enjoyment because we felt so inferior. Only Harun, with his Beatles-themed briefcase, walked with his head held high, exuding confidence as he smiled to the VIPs perched upon the podium.
Given the reality of our situation, we had to face the pros and cons of participation each time the carnival came around. Trapani, Sahara and Kucai suggested we not participate instead of performing and embarrassing ourselves. However, Bu Mus and Pak Harfan had another idea.
"The carnival is the only way to show the world that our school still exists on the face of this earth. Our school is an Islamic school that promotes religious values! We must be proud of that!" Pak Harfan said optimistically. "We must participate in the carnival! No matter what! If we pull off an impressive performance, who knows, Mister Samadikun might be pleased and reconsider trying to close down our school. This year, let's give Mahar a chance to show us what he's got. You know what? He is a very gifted artist!"
Pak Harfan was rightfully proud of Mahar. Recently, Mahar had given Pak Harfan a good name by solving the problem of an overcrowded audience trying to watch the black and white TV in the village hall. Mahar came up with a solution to reflect the TV screen off a couple of mirrors, thereby allowing the village hall to accommodate a bigger audience.
We loudly applauded his speech. Pak Harfan had ignited our spirits, readying us for battle, and we were de lighted because we were going to be spearheaded by Mahar. We sung his praises, but he wasn't there. It turned out he was perched on one of the filicium's branches, grinning mischievously.
Mahar immediately appointed A Kiong as his General Affairs Assistant—his servant, basically. A Kiong told me that he couldn't sleep for three nights because he was so proud of his promotion. Mahar stayed up for three nights as well, meditating for inspiration. He couldn't be disturbed.
Every time he entered the classroom, he was as silent as the Danube clouded yellow butterfly. I had never seen him act so seriously. He was aware that everyone hung their hopes on him. We were anxiously waiting to see what surprising artistic concept he would offer.
All evening, Mahar sat alone in the middle of the field behind our school. He beat a tabla—traditional drum— searching for music; he didn't allow anyone to come near him. He stared at the sky and suddenly got up, jumped around, ran in circles, yelled like a madman, threw his own body onto the ground, rolled around, sat down again and, without warning, dropped his head down like an animal suffering because pestering insects.
Was he creating a masterpiece? Would he be successful in redeeming our school from dozens of years of being looked down on in the carnival? Was he truly a pioneer, a renegade capable of phenomenal achievements? Should he even be carrying the burden to impress Mister Samadikun so he wouldn't close down our school? That's a heavy burden, my friend. After all, he was just a child.
I watched Mahar from a distance. Poor Mahar was the lonely artist, never receiving his due appreciation, always the butt of our jokes. His face was discombobulated. Already one week had passed, and he hadn't come up with a concept yet.
Then, on one bright Saturday morning, Mahar came to school whistling. It was clear to us he had been enlightened. Angels had washed his discombobulated face with inspiration. Dionysus, the god of theater, had rushed into the soft spot on his head that dawn. Mahar would certainly reveal an excellent idea. We gathered around him. He looked at each of us directly, one by one, as if he was about to show a magical light bulb to a group of little kids.
"No farmers, no PN laborers, no Koranic teachers, and no dam keepers for this year's carnival!" he yel
led loudly. We were shocked.
"All the power of Muhammadiyah School will be united for one thing!"
We were bewildered, not yet understanding.
"What's that, Mahar? Come on, how are we going to perform? Stop beating around the bush!" Kucai whined. This was to be the eruption of Mahar's extraordinary idea.
"We are going to perform a choreographed dance of the Masai tribe from Africa!"
We all looked at each other, not believing our own ears. The idea stung like an electric eel wrapping around our waists. We were still in shock from the incredible idea when Mahar yelled again, enlivening our spirits.
"Fifty dancers! Thirty table drummers! Spinning around like tops, we are going to blow up the VIP podium."
Oh, God, I was going to faint. We jumped up and down, clapped and cheered imagining the greatness of our coming performance.
"With tassels!" shouted Pak Harfan from the back.
"With manes!" Bu Mus added. We were ecstatic.
Mahar was so unpredictable. His imagination jumped wildly all over the place, smashing, new and fresh. Performing as a faraway tribe from Africa was a brilliant idea. That tribe must be meagerly dressed. The fewer the clothes—or in other words, the less that tribe wore—the less funding required. Mahar's idea wasn't just brilliant from an artistic point of view, it was also accommodating of our school's cash condition.
After that, every evening after school, we worked very hard practicing a strange dance from a faraway land. According to Mahar, it had to be performed quickly and energetically. Feet stomped the ground, arms were flung up to the sky, a circle formed as we spun simultaneously. Then, heads were quickly bowed down like bulls ready to attack, a jump and turn was executed, we dispersed in all directions and the original formation was assumed once again like bulls backing off. The feet had to fiercely scrape the ground. There could be no gentle movements; everything was fast, fierce, passionate and fractured. Mahar's choreography was difficult, but full of artistry. Fun to dance, and a healthy exercise too.
Do you know, my friend, what happiness is? It's what I felt at the time. I was completely taken in by art and would be in a performance with my best friends with the possibility of it being seen by my first love.
We really liked Mahar's energetic choreography and were certain that we were dancing about the Masai tribe's joy because their cows had just given birth. During the dance, we had to yell words that we didn't know the meanings of: Habuna! Habuna! Habuna! Baraba, baraba, bara ba, habba, habba, homm!
When we asked Mahar what those words meant, he acted like he possessed knowledge that spanned the continents and replied that it was a traditional African rhyme. I had just found out that African people shared a custom with Malays: an obsession with rhyming words. I tucked that knowledge away in my memory.
However, I was mistaken about the meaning of the dance. I had formerly been under the impression that the eight of us—Sahara had opted to sit out and Mahar himself played the tabla—were a Masai tribe, happy that our cows were pregnant and giving birth. But to my surprise, we were the cows themselves; following some enthusiastic dancing, we were going to be attacked by cheetahs. They circled us, disrupted the harmony of our dance formation, and then pounced on us. Chaos overcame the cows, but at that moment the Morans, or famous Masai soldiers, came to our rescue. The soldiers would battle the cheetahs for the sake of saving us, the cows. Mahar adroitly orchestrated the cheetahs' movements, they looked exactly like animals that hadn't eaten in three days.
That was the story behind Mahar's choreography. The whole scenario was accompanied by tablas, their rhythm ceaselessly piercing the sky, the drummers dancing dynamically. The choreography represented an exciting drama— the collective fight of man versus beast in the wilds of Africa, an exemplary work of art, Mahar's masterpiece.
Chapter 19
A Perfectly Planned Crime
AND THE day of the Carnival arrived. It was a day that made our hearts race.
Mahar fashioned the cheetah costumes out of canvas painted yellow with black spots, transforming our underclass men into convincing representations of the wild animals. Shocks of dyed yellow hair topped their painted faces.
Others performed as tabla drummers. Their bodies were painted shiny black, but their faces were painted snow white, and the result looked very strange. The Morans—the famous Masai traditional soldiers—were smothered in red paint. Armed with spears and red whips, headdresses made of woven wild grass, they were very fierce indeed.
Mahar paid extra special attention to us, the eight cows. Our costumes were the most artistic. We wore dark red shorts that went from our bellybuttons down to our knees. Our entire bodies were painted light brown like African cows, save for our faces, which were painted with streaks. Anklets with bells and tassels were fastened around our ankles like the mythological Javanese flying horse. They jingled with every step we took. Around our waists hung sashes made with chicken feathers. We also wore various exotic accessories, like big clipon earrings and bracelets made from tree roots.
The most ordinary looking of our accessories was a necklace made from aren (sugar palm) fruits strewn together like skewered meat on a rattan string. They weren't distinctive enough to warrant any discussion; we were too busy fawning over our awesome hats. In fact, to call them hats wouldn't do them justice. Crowns would be more ac curate.
The crowns were huge, made from long, wound pieces of fabric. Sewn onto the fabric was a miscellany of goose feathers, bark, wild flowers and miniature flags. No one suspected that in the unattractive necklaces lay Mahar's secret weapon for enhancing our performance. Those necklaces, which he had stayed up for three nights making, were the peak of his creativity.
Our necks were adorned, our heads were crowned. For the final touch, Mahar fastened a fauxhorse mane made of plastic twine to our backs. We were glorious cows. But overall, we didn't really look like cows. From behind we looked more like donkey men, from the side like turkeys, from above like cranes' nests, and from the face like ghosts.
Before the parade began, we gathered round, held hands and lowered our heads to say a prayer; it was very touching.
As we had predicted, the greeting from the spectators lining the street was outstanding. Nearing the VIP podium, we heard the thunderous sounds of drums, tubas, horns, trombones, clarinets, trumpets and saxophones. It was the PN marching band in action!
They truly were amazing. Their costumes differed according to the instruments they played. The bass drummers were Roman soldiers who had just dismounted their white steeds. Their victorious smiles made plain that they expected this year would be the same as years past. They'd surely grab Best Art Performance.
The pinnacle of their performance was when they halted before the front of the VIP podium and played Concerto for Trumpet and Orchestra, you know—the one frequently performed by Wynton Marsalis. The Concerto's beautiful intro was unveiled by fifteen blira players dinging three different sounds on their instruments. These were then joined by the beats of cymbals, until their tempo and tone were drowned out as dozens of snare drums took over. Every soul listening trembled. The audience was not yet finished swaying with the snare drums when the color guards flooded the street with an attractive, contemporary dance.
Thousands of spectators applauded, their cheers growing even louder as three majorettes, the queens of charm, skillfully twirled and tossed their batons without a single mistake. The beautiful, slender majorettes with their irresistible smiles ran about like peacocks showing off their tails.
The young ladies, straight off pages of a girly calendar, wore miniskirts, black stockings, and Cortez highheeled boots that came up to their knees. Their white gloves ex tended to their elbows. They skipped around in those high heeled boots without any trouble whatsoever.
More than mere majorettes, they were models. Their strides were long and they frequently snapped orders, while their faces conveyed a sense that they were accustomed to imported products and that they couldn't deign to wa
ste their time on insignificant things. Their spoiled lifestyles and bright futures could be glimpsed in their eyes. We'd never know their names, and they seemed like visitors from a faraway land who had stopped by only to dazzle us.
Meanwhile, right here, we were cornered like a bunch of strange primates popping our heads in and out of banyan tree roots: black, dirty and dumbfounded by the world around us. But we soon formed our lines, not discouraged, impatient as we waited our turn.
Right after the PN marching band took its leave with the applause and whistles of the audience, without wasting a single second, and shrewdly stealing the moment, Mahar and the tabla drummers attacked the VIP podium. They walloped the tablas with all their might, and moved like hundreds of monkeys fighting over mangoes. Mahar led the audiences' imaginations into Africa.
Spectators shot forward, eyes wide open, to see the spontaneous movements of young figures bending and curving like ocean waves with the ferocity of a puma and the impact of a bee sting. Without prompting, thousands of spectators cheered for the beating tablas.
The tablas' successful entry boosted our selfconfidence—the eight cows—we were up next. Our feet were itching to demonstrate the greatness of our mammal dance.
But in the course of the tense wait, my neck, chest and ears began to feel hot, then itchy. And it seemed that my friends were all experiencing the same thing. It then dawned on us that the itch was being caused by the sap from our aren fruit necklaces.
The intensity of the itch quickly escalated, but there was nothing we could do about it, because to take off the necklaces, we'd first have to remove our crowns, which weighed about two pounds and had been fastened to our heads by wrapping some of the fabric strips around our chins three times—not an easy ordeal. It was impossible to take off without someone's help. Clearly, Mahar had intended not only for the crown's design to enhance the glory of our costumes, but also to lock the necklaces onto our bodies. We were helpless, and Mahar signaled that it was our turn to take action.
The Rainbow Troops Page 12
