The Rainbow Troops Read online

  The story was about his great-grandfather who lived in a nomadic group, wandering the coasts of Belitong. They wore clothes of bark and ate by spearing animals or trapping them in tree roots. They slept on the branches of santigi trees to avoid being attacked by predatory creatures. During the full moon, they lit fires and worshiped the moon and the stars above. I got goosebumps thinking about how close our community was to primitive culture.

  "We've been allied with the Sawangs for a long time. They were skilled sailors living in boats, sailing from island to island. In Balok Bay our ancestors traded mouse deer, rattan fruit, areca nuts and resin with salt made by Sawang women," the muezzin informed us.

  Like fish living in an aquarium, we forgot about the water. After all these years living side by side with the Sawangs, we had no idea they were actually an anthropological phenomenon. Like the Chinese, Sawangs made up an important element of our heritage.

  Next to the Malays—and even more so next to Chinese—the Sawangs have a very different appearance. They are like the native Australian inhabitants, the Aborigines: dark skin, strong jaws, deep eyes, thin foreheads, Teutoniclike cranial structures and broom-like hair.

  PN employed the males of this tribe as coolies to haul sacks of tin from washing stations to ferries in ports. The ferries would then bring the tin to melting factories on Bangka Island. The women were employed as tin sack weavers. The men and women occupied the lowest stratum among laborers in Belitong, but they were happy because they got paid every Monday. It was hard to say if the money would last until Wednesday—not a drop of stinginess ran in Sawang blood. They spent like there was no tomorrow and borrowed like they'd live forever.

  Because of their money management problems, the Sawangs often became the victims of negative stereotypes in the circles of the Malay majority and the Chinese. All bad things were, without a doubt, associated with them. These attempts at discrediting the Sawangs reflected the character of a minority of Malays and Chinese afraid to lose jobs because of their own reluctance to perform hard labor. History has shown the Sawangs are a people of integrity, living exclusively within their own community, not sticking their noses in others' business and employing a high work ethic. They never got into trouble with the law. More than that, they never ran from their debts.

  The Sawangs were quite happy to marginalize themselves. For them, life consisted of a foreman willing to pay them once a week and hard jobs that no other race was willing to do. They didn't recognize the concept of power distance because there was no hierarchy in their culture. People who didn't understand their culture would consider them impolite. The one and only exalted one among them was the head of the tribe, usually a shaman, and the position wasn't hereditary.

  PN placed them in a long house with partitions. Thirty families lived there. There's no accurate record of their origins. It's quite possible that they are unmapped by anthropologists. Do policy makers know that their birthrate is so low and their mortality rate so high that there are only a few families of pure-blooded Sawangs left? Will their beautiful language be swept away by the waves of time?

  Chapter 14

  Report Card for Mother

  A THICK, black rope hung over the surface of the brown, rolling waters, arcing toward the river's surface. One end was tied onto the branch of an old, brittle rubber tree that reached up like an arm in the middle of the river's flow. It was Samson who had hurled it out there.

  It was about 17 meters from the edge of the river to the rubber tree branch in the middle. That meant the river was roughly 30 meters wide, and God only knows how deep. The current ran swiftly and briskly, typical of rivers in Belitong beginning and ending at the sea. The surface of the water glittered under the blaze of the sun.

  A pale A Kiong, positioned on the edge of the river, held the other end of the rope. He climbed up a kepang tree across from the rubber tree, and then tied his end to one of its branches.

  My body shook as I made my way along the rope, hand over hand, toward the rubber tree. The rope slid inch by inch through my choking grip. I hung like a soldier in a drill; my legs fell down from the rope every once in a while and skimmed the swift surface of the water, making my blood curdle. I could vaguely see my shadow on the opaque water. If I fell, I would be found stuck among mangrove roots near Linggang Bridge, about 50 kilometers from here.

  All of these painstaking efforts—which, by the way, went against our parents' wishes—were for the sake of obtaining rubber fruit and increasing the worth of our bets in the tarak arena. Or maybe this act of stupidity was also driven by our uncontrollable curiosity to unravel the secrets of the mysterious rubber fruit.

  The strength of this fruit's skin could not be deduced from its shape and color, and it was something of a mystery. Herein lay the appeal of the ancient and legendary game of tarak. There was one fundamental key, and that was that rubber trees with the hardest fruits were always deep in the forest, and it took either an extraordinary amount of effort or intrepid yet foolish determination to obtain them.

  In the game of tarak, two rubber fruits were stacked and then hit with the palm of the hand. Whichever fruit didn't break was the winner. Tarak was a game that opened the rainy season in our village, a warm-up for the far more exciting games to come when the rain flooded down from the sky.

  As rain beat down more violently on the village, the aura of tarak slowly faded away. When tarak was no longer being played, that meant it was already the end of September—a primitive way of reading nature's signs. The entire world becomes depressed during the months that end inber—that is, excluding us.

  The sadness of the final months of the year was for adults to worry about. For us, the end of the year brought many fun things, and each had its own story. My friend, I will share them with you, one by one.

  Up first is Lintang. He informed us that he just bought a new, stronger tire for his bike to replace the old one with its numerous leaks. He also repaired the bike's chain. His goal was to be able to carry his mother on the back of the bike. And for the first time, his mother would come to the school to receive his report card. Lintang's eyes lit up when he spoke of his mother. He usually got his report card with his father. It was clear as day that Lintang was extremely proud to be able to present his mother with his top-of-theclass report card.

  Lintang and his parents were the first to arrive and take their seats on the long bench. Because they only owned one bicycle, Lintang's father departed from their home in the middle of the night to make the journey by foot. Once morning came, Lintang followed with his mother on the bicycle.

  After all of the parents and students had gathered, Pak Harfan delivered a short speech. He told all present that Lintang was the pride of the Muhammadiyah School. To pay his respects to Lintang's mother for making the long journey to school, Pak Harfan invited her to say a few words.

  She was shy and hesitant at first, but then proceeded to get up. She had met misfortune, suffering from polio as a child. She now walked with a cane. Lintang got up to hold his mother's arm.

  Lintang's mother received his report card from Pak Harfan. Her hands quivered holding onto it. She opened the first page, unaware that she was holding it upside down. Like Lintang's father, my father and most of our parents, Lintang's mother could not read or write.

  She thanked Bu Mus and Pak Harfan. Her dialect was hard to follow—it was very backcountry Malay. She said, more or less, that this was the first time she had left her village, and everyone smiled bitterly when she said it was so hard to believe that these days reading and writing could change one's future.

  She knew our school had been threatened with closure. She said that in her nightly prayers, she always prayed Lintang would win the Academic Challenge so our school wouldn't be closed—a truly sincere hope.

  It appeared that the coastal family had high hopes for Lintang's education. They believed their future could be better if Lintang got his diploma. Lintang's mother finished by saying how proud she was of her oldest son. I l
ooked over at Lintang. His eyes were glassy, and he lowered his head as his tears fell to the floor.

  After Lintang's mother spoke, Pak Harfan invited Lintang to come up. With wet eyes, Lintang dedicated all of his grades on his report card to his mother.

  Usually, after Lintang's report card came mine. I always got second place. My eternal second place, just as the surface of the moon will always look to me like a mother holding her baby. However, this time, it was different. Harun snatched second place.

  As part of our struggle to save our school from Mister Samadikun's efforts to close it, as well as for the sake of appreciating Harun and making him happy, Bu Mus made him a special report card. Even the numbers inside were special. Bu Mus spoke with Harun in a very democratic manner. First of all, Harun asked, "Ibunda Guru, of all the subjects on this report card, which one is the most important?"

  "Muhammadiyah Ethics," Bu Mus answered convincingly while pointing at it on the lowest line of the report card.

  Harun nodded, and even more convincingly asked to be provided with the same grades as Lintang and Trapani. That action certainly made him the runner-up, defeating me.

  There was a little debate with Bu Mus about the grade for Muhammadiyah Ethics. For that class, Harun demanded the grade of three.

  "Three is a very low mark, my child. You are very well mannered. I dare say you deserve an eight."

  Harun froze. Bu Mus said it was lamentable to get a three on your report card.

  "The score of eight is rightfully yours. It is the highest grade I have ever given to any of my students for that class. Isn't that great? You got the highest score in the most valuable subject of study in the world."

  Bu Mus was right, and we all agreed. Harun's exemplary behavior deserved to be rewarded with an eight. The ironic thing was that on the contrary, we, who had a more normal way of thinking, never received eights in Ethics class.

  Through numerous attempts at persuasion, Harun didn't budge. Bu Mus stopped trying to convince him after he peacefully said, "God likes odd numbers, Ibunda Guru." So the low number three was carved onto Harun's report card. His grade average would certainly drop. However, because he had taken all the tens from Lintang's card and other high scores from his idol Trapani's card, he remained runner-up.

  Bu Mus had made a wise decision in making Harun's report card. His mother was as happy as a parent at her child's graduation ceremony. Harun grinned and waved his report card high in the air.

  As the afternoon grew older, the joyous report card festivities came to a close. I went home riding on the back of my father's bike, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from Lintang and his parents as they left the school.

  Lintang pedaled the bike and tightly gripped the handlebars with his mother's cane slung over his left shoulder. She sat on the back of the bike, and his father walked alongside, pushing it.

  Lintang's mother did not stop talking while looking at the report card. It seemed that the report card and Lintang's schooling had at least distracted them from their daily struggle to survive.

  Lintang's family was like the epitome of poverty for Malay and Indonesian traditional fishermen. They carried that misery in their hearts from generation to generation. They swallowed the bitterness of empty expectations for the future and their doubts about their children's educations. This misery, of the have-nots, couldn't be heard by anyone's ears, not the haves', nor the state's. But today, the misery briefly disappeared for one poor coastal family, covered by the near endless marks of 10 in the report card of their extraordinary young son.

  The sky darkened. Lintang, his mother and father ran to take shelter under the leaves of the gayam tree. Millions of honeybees attacked the village from the mountain. The first rain had come.

  Chapter 15

  The First Rain

  BELITONG ISLAND lies at the point where the South China Sea and the Java Sea meet. The location, sheltered by Java and Kalimantan, protects its coasts from extreme waves, but the millions of gallons of water evaporating from the surrounding seas in the dry season spill down on it for days on end during the rainy season months.

  The first rain was a blessing from the sky, and we greeted it with joy. The heavier it rained, the louder the thunder roared, the faster the winds stirred the villages, the greater the lightning flashed, the merrier our hearts. We let the torrential rains shower our grungy bodies. We ignored the threats of rattan whippings from our parents; they were nothing compared to the allure of the rain. We went anyway, strange animals making their way up from bottoms of ditches, over fallen trees and PN project cars drowning in floods, with the refreshing smell of rainwater reviving our chests.

  We didn't stop until we were blue in the lips and couldn't feel our numb fingers. The world itself couldn't hold us back. We were all-powerful VIPs during the rainy season. Our parents were perturbed, frustrated at being ignored. We ran around, played soccer, made sand castles, pretended to be monitor lizards, swam in the mud, shouted to the planes flying above, and screamed loudly and incoherently to the rain and thunderbolts in the sky as if we were out of our minds.

  The most fun game didn't have a name, but it involved pinang hantu tree leaves. One or two people sat on a leaf as wide as a prayer mat. Two or three people pulled the leaf—quickly. The outcome resembled sledding.

  The front passenger held the leaf like reins on a camel. The rear passenger hugged the front one tightly to avoid slipping off. The largest among us—Samson, Trapani and A Kiong—held the position of leaf-pullers, a title they were very proud of.

  The game's climax came at the moment when the leaf-pullers, strong as horses, made a quick turn and intentionally pulled harder. Those on the leaf would be thrust to the side, the slippery mud smoothing out an otherwise sharp, rapid and exhilarating skid.

  I felt my body thrash about beyond my control and saw a huge wave of mud splash up from the right and cover the spectators in wet dirt. Sahara, Harun, Kucai, Mahar and Lintang were more than happy to be the recipients of the mud splash. The dirtier the water, the happier they were. They clapped their hands, cheering us on. Sitting behind me, Syahdan held on tight and hollered happily.

  Syahdan acted as my co-pilot as we slid sideways, imitating a long-haired daredevil riding his motorcycle through a flaming tunnel at the circus—or even cooler, like Speed Racer lowering his body as he takes a deadly turn, a stylish yet bold move. That moment brought the greatest adrenaline rush this awesome game had to offer.

  But the story doesn't end there. The severe angle of the turn made it highly difficult to round successfully; the leaf-pullers crashed into each other and tumbled round and round. As for Syahdan and me, we were flung from the leaf and sent into a spin before finally spilling into a ditch.

  My head felt heavy. I groped it and felt small bumps emerging. My voice sounded strange, even robotic. A throbbing pain on the right side of my head was spreading to my eyes, something I usually felt after getting water up my nose. I choked like a coughing goat as I looked for Syahdan, who had slid a bit further than me. I found him sprawled out, motionless and half-covered in the ditch's water.

  Oh no! This was serious. Was he unconscious? Did he have a concussion? Was he dead!? He wasn't breathing. He had fallen hard, like a pipe from a truck. I saw thick blood dripping slowly from his nose. We gathered round his corpse-like body. Sahara started crying, all of the color drained from her face. A Kiong trembled terribly. Trapani cried out for his mother. I slapped his cheeks.

  "Syahdan! Syahdan!"

  I touched the blood vessel on his neck, imitating what I'd seen on the TV series Little House on The Prairie at the village hall. Since I didn't know what I was searching for, I didn't find it. Samson, Kucai and Trapani shook Syahdan, trying to wake him up. But he lay motionless. His lips were pale and his body cold as ice. Sahara began sobbing. "Syahdan ... Syahdan ... wake up!" she pleaded.

  We panicked; we didn't know what to do. I kept calling his name, but he still didn't move. Syahdan was dead. Poor Syahdan, what a tra
gic fate.

  Samson suggested that we lift him up. His body was already rigid. I held onto his head as we carried his body, running together. Sahara was wailing at this point. We were truly in a state of panic, but amidst the rising urgency, the black curly head in my hands showed rows of decayed teeth as pointy as ice picks and let out a highpitched laugh.

  Ha! My co-pilot had faked his death! That rascal had lain still and held his breath so we'd think he'd died. We returned the favor by throwing him back into the ditch. He was elated, doubling over with laughter at our bewilderment. Sahara wiped away her tears with her dirty arm. I glanced at Syahdan, who was wincing in pain, but also laughing so hard he was crying, his tears mixing with raindrops.

  The strange thing was, while falling, crashing and rolling around were painful, they were nonetheless followed by loud laughter and teasing—which were the most appealing parts of the no-name game. We would play it over and over again. The falling incident wasn't caused by the physics-defying angle of the turn, speed and mass, but by the voluntary silliness triggered by the rainy season euphoria. The world may have been depressed, but the ber months were very glorious for us. The rainy season party was a festival held for impoverished Malay children, for us, by nature itself.

  Chapter 16

  Heavenly Poetry and a Flock of Pelintang Pulau

  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.