Hayaping

Korrie Layun Rampan

I would never have reached Hayaping, had it not been due to Ogay's encouragement. I heard the name from my friend, a Reformasi tabloid journalist, but I wouldn't have been able to get there on my own.

Ogay had aroused my curiosity, particularly because that is the location of a cave called Liang Saragi.

"People say it's got breathtaking scenery," said Ogay persuasively. "It would be a shame not to make the time to go there."

On a hired motorcycle I rode with Ogay to Hayaping. The place so attracted me that the slightly damaged road from Tamiang Layang did not deter me. Its traditional market, extending toward the interior, and its unique scenery projected an image of a village typical of the Dayaks.

The local characteristics were also noticeable in the shape of buildings, the accents of the people and particularly the hogs roaming around village houses and along country lanes. Ogay's motorbike almost hit a pig and its young brood as we neared a bend leading to the market.

I wished to write a book about a village entering the modern world, while on the other hand maintaining its rural traditions by following its ancestors' way of life.

"That's why I'm taking you here," argued Ogay. "Without close observation, you'll just be writing fiction."

"I don't want to be a fiction writer," I agreed with Ogay. "So I'm with you now to see the real thing."

I got some general knowledge of the area from Billa, a daughter of the owner of an inn where I stayed in Tamiang Layang. This village, situated further in the interior, looked like a inland town. Its market was crowded only once a week and its environs were teeming with domestic tourists as locals held ijame ceremonies -- to bury the ashes of cremated relatives -- or during school vacations, with teenagers seeking a cave adventure.

As I dug deeper into sources of tales about the cave, popular among Patung and Simpang Bingkuang village people, some claimed that Liang Saragi was the world's longest and most spectacular cave.

"If only its interior was well maintained and adequately illuminated to reveal its stalactites and stalagmites, the cave would produce foreign exchange," said the local village chief.

"The length of the underground tunnel is fabulous. People say it reaches hundreds of kilometers, extending even as far as the town of Tanjung in Tabalong regency."

"But who's ever entered the cave to enjoy its amazing beauty?" a youth asked critically while sitting on his ojek. "We've all only heard the story. Nobody dares to prove it."

"You yourself have no guts," replied another. "How can we know what it is really like by speculating only?"

"Why don't you try to explore it," still another ojek driver interjected. "Let's hope you'll find a treasure trove or phantom snakes."

"Don't scare people off," the wiry one argued. "Many believe that in the Japanese occupation period plenty of gemstones belonging to locals were hidden in the cave."

"Well, wouldn't that be a windfall?" said the village chief. "You could seek the support of the security forces to search for the repository of foreign exchange. Try to make a proposal..."

I got enough information to realize how the cave entranced visitors with its wonderful underground scenery. While Billa had only given a vague idea, the guys added some stories that aroused curiosity. But I could still secure data on the formation and magnificence of this cave as well as its history from the tourism authorities, who surely had great interest in it as a source of regional revenue.

With Ogay, I was guaranteed the trip would be enjoyable. We had prepared special equipment for exploring the cave. My friend Danu, a caver frequently searching the swallow den of Karang Bolong, had told me a lot about indispensable gadgets for cave adventurers. Isn't an underground trek fraught with unexpected dangers? Venomous snakes as well as poisonous gases could creep up on us unexpectedly.

There remains the dangers of landslides, slipping over on slimy stones or plunging into ice-cold ponds. One may also find boiling hot water springs that could cook adventurers like chickens in the pots of traditional market food stalls.

Hayaping and Liang Saragi made me and Ogay more mentally prepared. No particular gear would have been needed if we had just wanted to go shopping at the Tuesday market. The delicious Soto Banjar could have made us pretty full and Hayaping's typical fried banana fritters whetted our appetite. But we both were more focussed on the cave known for its legend than exploring the market.

I don't believe in folk tales myself. Weren't tales just an oral tradition created by traditional storytellers? But I cannot ignore community beliefs leading to myths about certain sites. The local people's belief that Saragi was a manifestation of an event should also be intelligently interpreted, meaning that the existing legend must have some connection with the community supporting the story.

I learned from the Hayaping community that the cave was not an eerie place. No official records mentioned it as a source of toxic gases, nor had there been reports on deaths due to poisonous snake bites. Even in the period of the Japanese occupation, when caves and tunnels were turned into deadly chambers, no ghastly experience was ever recounted by surviving community members. Saragi may well be the safest tourist destination of its kind in the world.

My determination to enter the cave never wavered. Ogay, enthusiastic about coming along with me, was ignoring his task ahead in Jakarta as his term of coverage in Tumbang Samba was over. He had even compiled tragic stories from Sampit and Palangkaraya in a serial form to appear in the publication he worked for.

Three hours had elapsed as we walked in the dark and stuffy tunnel. For me it was my first experience inside a natural tunnel, though I had once rode the Metro in Paris and the subway in Tokyo.

But the cave we were exploring was not manmade. The rocks were indeed beautiful, with no human interference in its designs. The stuffiness was a result of subterranean humidity.

The masks and oxygen we carried did boost the conviction that we would not be inhaling lethal gases.

Bats or swallows made alarming maneuvers now and again. But the heap we found right before us was more than a shock. We both stared in wide-eyed amazement for a while as our flashlights revealed a skeleton. Something we had never imagined we would find had just become a reality.

The award reception for both of us was very lively, after we had traveled back and forth between Jakarta and Tokyo due to the Saragi discovery. We were awarded for having found the skeleton of general Takashi Imanura, who committed suicide in the cave at the end of World War II. But as the ceremony climaxed, an uproar emerged. The shouts of an old woman dressed in ragged clothes surprised us. "Stop the ceremony, stop it...," she exclaimed. "It's my husband's skeleton, it's not Imanura's. My husband was a victim of Japanese atrocities."

The function almost turned descended into chaos before security men intervened to hold the angry woman. Was it true that the bones belonged to her late husband? Hadn't they been subjected to forensic tests at sophisticated laboratories owned by Asia's super power? Millions of Indonesians in fact disappeared during the second world war. Japan and the Netherlands should have been accountable because they had created these disasters in this country.

"Cancel the awards!" she screamed again. "Cancel it. Give the prizes to the descendants of war victims. Distribute them to the descendants of women once forced to serve as jungun ianfu."

It seemed as if millions of spirits of the dead were staring at me, their gaze piercing like a razor blade, slashing the packages of gifts presented to me and Ogay. Hadn't we entered the cave for fun, only to find ourselves granted with such a great reward? Who would ever share prizes with the victims of war atrocities and man's greed?

I felt rather choked as I stretched out my hands to receive the award. Would it be worth the amount needed for distribution to all those victims?

Translated by Aris Prawira

Note:

- ojek : motorcycle taxi

- soto Banjar: South Kalimantan's chicken broth

- jungun ianfu: women forced to be sex slaves for Japanese soldiers