The Rainbow Troops (10 page)

UNLIKE MOST years, August had arrived and the dry season had not yet left our village.

Trees withered. With each passing vehicle, dust was kicked up from the red-pebbled roads, eventually clinging to nearby windowsills. My village was dry and smelled like rust.

The Chinese community became more vigorous in their routine: bathe in the middle of the day, comb back their wet hair and trim their nails with clippers. They were the only ones who looked a bit cleaner during the dry season.

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 portends 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 17
^th
carnival—Independence Day.

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 place 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.

"Off you go, your Majesty," Syahdan teased me as we hit our first slope.

He panted, but with a wide smile, as he bowed down like a bootlicker. Syahdan happily accepted tasks, no matter what they were, even watering the flowers, as long as he got out of class. For him, the task of buying chalk was like a little vacation and a good opportunity for him to try to flirt with the young shop ladies he had crushes on. I wasn't interested in playing along with his game.

We arrived at a low, moon-cake-shaped shrine with a black and white photo of a serious-faced lady covered with a sheet of glass at the center of it. Drops of red candle wax were scattered around it. This was the grave from our agreement. It was my turn to pedal the bicycle.

I half-heartedly mounted the bicycle, and, with the first turn of the wheel, I was already angry with myself, cursing this task, the stinking store, and our stupid agreement. I grumbled because the bicycle's chain was too tight and it was hard to pedal. Other things I complained about: the law never siding with the poor; the saddle being too high; corrupt officials wandering around as free as wild chickens; Syahdan's body being so heavy even though it was so small; the world not being fair. Syahdan sat tight fully enjoying his back seat whistling the song
Semalam di Malaysia—A Night in Malaysia.
He paid no heed to my blubbering.

We arrived at the fish market. The fish market was deliberately situated at the edge of the river so that all the waste could easily be disposed of. But it was on low land, and consequently, during high tide, the river would bring the organic trash back to the narrow alleys of the market. When the water receded, the trash got stuck in table legs, piles of cans, broken fences,
kersen
tree stumps and crisscrossed wooden posts. That market of ours was the result of sophisticated city planning, courtesy of the most hickish of Malay architects. It wasn't decadent, but it was an exploding mess.

The purchase of a box of chalk was insignificant business, so the buyer of chalk had to wait until the owner of the shop finished dealing with men and women with their heads covered in sarongs—the Sarong people.

A Miauw, the owner of
Sinar Harapan
Shop, was a terrifying character. He was fat and always wore a tank top, shorts and slippers. A little batik-covered debt book was always in his hand. There was a pencil tucked behind his meatball-like ear. A
sempoa
—an old, wooden abacus—sat on his table. The sound of the
sempoa
was intimidating.

His shop was really more like a discount warehouse. Hundreds of kinds of merchandise were stacked up to the ceiling of the small, stuffy space. Besides the various fruits, vegetables and other foods in the rusty bins, the shop also sold prayer rugs, pickled
kedondong
fruit in old jars, typewriter ribbons and paint that came with a bonus calendar of women in bikinis. The long, glass shelves displayed cheap face-whitening creams, water purifying tablets, firecrackers, fireworks, BB gun bullets, rat poison and TV antennas. If you were in a rush to buy Butterfly brand diarrhea medicine, don't expect A Miauw to find it right away. He himself sometimes forgot where the medicine was stored. He was drowning in a whirlpool of merchandise.

"
Kiak-kiak!"
A Miauw summoned his coolie, Bang Arsyad, telling him to come quickly.

"
Magai di Manggara masempo linna?"
The Sarong people complained when they saw the price of oil lamp wicks. They said it was cheaper in Manggar.

"
Kito lui, Ba? Ngape de Manggar harge e lebe mura?
" BangBang Arsyad passed the complaint on to A Miauw, the first question in Khek language, the second in Malay.

I felt queasy in that smelly shop, but a bit entertained by the conversations. I had just witnessed the complexity of the cultural differences within our communities play out. Three men with completely different ethnic roots had communicated using each of their mother tongues, their words jumbled yet understood.

Those given to suspicion would accuse A Miauw of intentionally engineering such a linguistic mishmash for his own benefit. But let me tell you a little bit about A Miauw's personality. He was indeed an arrogant snob with an unpleasant voice that made one cringe. His face gave the impression that he was perpetually looking for someone to browbeat. His unfriendly words were condescending, and his body stank like he ate too much garlic or something. He was a devout Confucian, however, and in doing business he was undeniably honest.

Amid the harmony of our community, the Chinese were the efficient traders. Those who actually produced the product hailed from places unknown to us—we only knew them through the
made in
tags on the back of pants. The Malays were the consumers and the poorer they grew, the more consumptive they became. Meanwhile, the Sarong people provided seasonal jobs to the Sawang, who hauled their purchases to their boats.

The chalk transaction was routine and always the same. After I waited and waited and almost passed out from the smell, A Miauw would yell loudly and order someone to fetch a box of chalk. Then, from the rear of the shop, someone would shriek back, just like the Whiterumped Shama bird. I always assumed the sound came from a very little girl.

A box of chalk was slid through a small slot the size of a pigeon cage door. Only a soft right hand could be seen passing the box through the slot. The face of the hand's owner was a mystery. She was hidden behind the wooden wall in the back that separated the stockroom from the rest of the shop. The mysterious hand's owner never spoke one word to me. She passed the box of chalk through and then pulled her hand back immediately, like one feeding meat to a leopard. It went on this way for years, the procedure always the same, unchanging.

Every time her hand came out, I never saw a ring on her tiny, upwardly curved fingers, but a bracelet made of jade stones around her dignified wrist. I think had I been too bold, her fingers would have stabbed out my eyes with an invisible
kuntau
kung fu move, as quickly as crane pecking a fish with its beak. What kept me respectful was the jade stone bracelet she probably inherited from her grandfather, a kung fu master who stole it from the mouth of a dragon after slaying it in a great battle to win her grandmother's heart.

But, do you know what, my friend? Embedded in the tips of those upwardly curved fingers were extraordinarily beautiful fingernails, well cared for and far more enchanting than her jade stone bracelet.

I had never seen such beautiful nails on a Malay girl, let alone on a Sawang. The nails were so smooth that they appeared to be transparent. The tips of the nails were cut with breathtaking precision in the shape of a crescent moon, creating a sense of harmony throughout her five fingers.

The surface of the skin around her nails was very neat because she had probably soaked it in an antique ceramic bowl filled with warm water and young ylang-ylang leaves. As they grew, the nails bowed down over the tips of her fingers, making them even more beautiful, like the bluish water quartz hidden at the bottom of the Mirang River. So different from the nails of Malay girls, which widened and jutted out ungracefully as they grew, like the prongs of a rake.

I had been assigned the irritating task of buying chalk frequently, and my only incentive to carry it out was the chance to glance at those nails. Having gone there so often, I knew the mysterious young girl's nail cutting schedule: once every five weeks on Friday.

I had never seen her face. She was uninterested in seeing mine. Every time I said
kamsiah
—thank you—after receiving the box of chalk, she never responded. Quiet as stone. For me, this mysterious young girl full of secrets was a manifestation of an alien from an unknown land. She was extremely consistent in keeping her distance from me. No saying hello, no time wasted on trivial matters. To her, I was as insignificant as the chalk itself.

There were times when I felt curious to see what the owner of these heavenly nails looked like. Was she as lovely as her nails? Were the nails on her left hand as gorgeous as those on her right? Or did she only have one hand? Did she even have a face? But all of these thoughts were only in my heart. I had no intention of sneaking a peek at her face. The opportunity to look at her nails was more than enough to make me happy. My friend, I was not one of those boorish boys.