The Crocodiles

The Crocodiles

Korrie Layun Rampan

The sharp edged cove lets strong sea currents batter its rim.
When the tide is in, sea waves pound so heavily on the curved
shoreline that a deep bay has formed.

After endless waves smashing against the curve for centuries,
the bay has turned even more threatening, particularly when its
water begins to surge into rivers, reaching elbow height before
flooding higher plains.

My father built a house facing the bay. From its front yard,
boats and other vessels passing the inlet could be clearly seen.
As a child, I would stand on the doorstep, watching the scenery.
Once I witnessed a boat carrying agricultural produce collide
with a loaded merchant ship turning rapidly in the bay.

The packed boat was swallowed by the strong currents while the
speeding vessel crashed into a log and its skipper lost control,
causing the ship to become stuck amid the massive torrent of
waves. It capsized with all its load littering the bay.

The authorities promptly put up signs requiring ships to
proceed with caution as they navigated the bay's sharp bends. Yet
several accidents still occurred, some claiming human lives. The
latest I saw at the bay involved workers ferrying a log raft from
the upstream. When the raft passed the bay, its end hit the
riverbank due to the heavy upstream flow, and the two workers
struggling to turn their raft back on course bumped into a tree
stem stretching out to the bay.

One of them fell backward on the raft and the other dropped
into a whirlpool, slipping down under the raft. They lost their
lives.

And I missed the bay when I left for school. I could only go
there during the long vacation once a year. It was very difficult
to find means of transport to reach the area, so that there were
times when I could only hang out at the bay once in two or three
years.

Now and again I could only make it to Damai or Barong Tongkok
as there were no more public vehicles, forcing me to return
disappointed after failing to arrive at Bundon Bay.

When I was back in Jakarta, my mother sent me a note with the
news that our dilapidated home would be renovated.

"We can't leave the village, Sulau. Your rubber and white and
red rattan plantations occupy several plots of land. They are all
flourishing."

I never answered my mom's letters. No mailmen could make their
delivery in the forest zone's river stream interior that was
almost inaccessible by inland water conveyance. She used to send
her notes via Samarinda, when her friends or relatives happened
to go shopping there.

It took a week to reach the city. If mom went there herself,
the length of time would double. The total cost and time spent on
the trip only to send a letter might equal the price of a cow.

But that's was all part of the hardship my parents had to face
as forest dwellers in a remote region. When I suggested that they
move to the city, mom would always argue that they had could not
leave the graves of my grandparents.

"Earning a living may be easier," mom wrote in her neat
handwriting. "But who can ever be asked to take care of the
burial grounds of your grandparents?"

It was almost impossible to persuade my mom when it came to
such spiritual bonds. I respected her as a principled woman. She
followed her husband to live in a far-off district, quitting her
job as an elementary school teacher in Balikpapan. If she had
married a man working in the city, she might have enjoyed a
comfortable and pleasant life. But her love for dad seemed
incomparable to money or wealth.

As an ex-teacher, she could arrange for support of my tuition
and living expenses. By saving her money and letting me draw out
the sum needed from the bank, I didn't have to bother her every
time I wanted something. In the second year of my studies, I
managed to pay the fees myself with my income as a freelancer for
various media. And my mom no longer needed to deposit money for
me.

She wrote to me sadly that I no longer needed her support. She
took it as though she had lost her only child, not to mention her
hurt at my plan to settle in Jakarta after graduation instead of
returning to my bay home.

"You won't likely be able to visit our graves once in five
years when we die, Lau," was what mom said in her latest letter
after I graduated and continued studying for my master's.

"Your dad has built a permanent home and your farms have
yielded millions of rupiah. What a pity you can't take a look
occasionally."

Still, I didn't answer her. It would be in vain to send a
letter to Bundon. Even if I'd been willing to pay Rp 500,000, a
mailman would have refused to deliver it because of the isolated
location. A motorized traditional boat called ketinting was
required to sail along the stream, costing a whole lot more than
the postal rate. The only way was to have it passed on by certain
people familiar with the region who were going home through
Bundon Bay.

But I was determined to see my village home after earning my
master's degree. I'd been away too long so that the youths and
children there might not know me except my name and framed
graduation-day picture. I myself might no longer recognized the
faces of local villagers either after such a long absence.

Actually, I wanted to go home to comply with mom's request. I
wanted to go so much, but it was hard for me to leave Jakarta. I
loved my job, writing columns in newspapers and becoming a well-
known name. Time passed, and I had still not returned home or
married.

"You can bring home the one you choose or let me do it for
you?"

Mom's letter and her instruction to marry startled me. This
time, I rushed to buy an airplane ticket to Samarinda, where I
notified my mom's relatives before proceeding to Bangun and
boarding a speedboat to Melak. I then took a motorcycle taxi and
a ketinting to reach Bundon Bay.

There was no way I could lure a woman used to the trappings of
life in the city to come to such a remote, vast area with only a
single home. And what would happen if she came from a rich family
and was a college graduate?

My mom didn't disappoint me at all, brimming with pride when I
arrived. It's not only because I was an only child and that,
based on the traditional line of descent, would inherit my
grandfather's wealth, but also as I'd become the only holder of a
master's degree in Rinding village.

It's ironic that a village not to be found on any map could be
recognized through the scholastic achievement of one of the
locals. And at the age of 26, I felt I was a "forest hero" who
had gained my knowledge from the Jakarta jungle. I had high hopes
in believing I was needed by the nation, state and ancestral
village.

I was promptly introduced to Bulau. The girl, my mother said,
was my cousin on my father's side. She had adequate education as
a graduate of an economics college in the region.

"You can both be civil servants," my mom said as she clasped
our hands.

Others may scoff that it was an arranged union, but I found
she was a girl I could rely on. What is the problem with being
paired off if it turns out the person is meant for you?

Our relationship became increasingly intimate, and I was
already thinking ahead to the day when she would be called Mrs.
Bulau Sulau.

The days passed quickly, with our affection for each other
growing. I loved Bulau; if she were a pearl, she would be of the
most perfect quality; if she were a gem, she would be the most
expensive sapphire.

It seemed we were destined to be together, living in our
little corner of the country, but God had other plans.

We went to the bay together in the early evening to bathe. It
was a joyful time, with people talking and joking together. But
as we talked, Bulau stepped forward and plunged straight into the
water.

"Crocodile! Crocodile!" shouted the others as they scurried to
safety.

"Bulau's been yanked by a crocodile! She's been pulled down!
She's been tugged away!" the noisy clamor came from all the
people around.

The screams resounded before fading away with the wind and
vanishing in the murky twilight.

Still dazed by the turmoil, I tried to plunge in after her.
But before I could do it, somebody held me back.

"Don't kill yourself, Lau! You can't fight against a crocodile
in the stream! Let's call someone to catch the evil reptile!"

It took three days for the man to draw the crocodile from the
depths of the bay. By using a strand of Bulau's hair, the tamer
dragged the animal out. Its belly was slashed open, with the
pieces of Bulau's body lying inside.

There had been no marriage after all, only two deaths, that of
Bulau and her killer. But how could we blame the crocodile,
forced to prey on people with all the fish in the bay plundered.
There were monkeys and deer hungrily roaming the riverbanks now,
their forest homes cut down.

I was stoic, even as my mother sobbed.

I could not shed my tears but my mom was sobbing.

There was a scorching sun at the funeral. As I watched Bulau's
body interred, I looked around at the trees surrounding us and
wondered when they would be gone. When would life be rid of
misery? Was happiness only fleeting?

And the streams at Bundon Bay kept flowing as if nothing had
happened.

Translated by Aris Prawira