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