The iron village

Korrie Layun Rampan

The name of the village, Kampung Besi, always made me wonder. For all I knew, the village soil contained no minerals, like iron, nickel, gold, silver or copper.

My grandma said it was so called because the village was as strong as iron in the face of pengayau (headhunters) in bygone times. The locals managed to resist their attacks like an iron shield, and used spears, daggers, swords and krises to overwhelm their enemies. Thus it became known as Kampung Besiq1 in the local tongue.

As my place of birth, the village filled me with pride. Its location at the furthermost end of all villages along the Pahu River made it the last terminal of economic activities. Farmers in the Pahu downstream area and the interior land of Piraq River would carry their farm produce to the village, and vessels transported resin and rattan to the nearby district capital before the commodities were sold to the provincial capital.

The two rivers became village arteries. This centuries old village was situated around the junction of both streams and, according to my grandma, had been there before she was born. As she was now almost a hundred years old, the village had been founded at least 300 years before.

It was indeed a long time because most hamlets on river plains in the district had disappeared after being abandoned, as their people moved to other regions to seek a better livelihood. But Kampung Besi was capable of making its community feel at home and thrived following the arrival of settlers, who tried their luck by trading, farming, fishing or collecting rattan.

Ground nuts, soybeans and mung beans were the commodities characterizing its economic independence, apart from its position as the rice supplier of the whole district. As symbolized by the name, Kampung Besi was like a force of magnetic iron attracting other areas for its advancement.

What I took great pride in was the lou, the traditional Dayak tribal house that my grandma said had stood there for over a century. Its tall, foreboding pillars and the circular size of a pasu2 seemed already timeworn, but their lower ends were firmly planted into the ground, with their tops securely supporting the weight of thick and heavy wooden shingles. The main pillar in the middle resembled the concrete column of a freeway bridge. It stood alongside the other two, which formed the sustaining force at both ends of the building.

The lou was quite long. Formerly, villagers were lou dwellers and as my granny said, this one was built by her father when he was a young tribal chief. I never measured it but she mentioned a hundred fathoms long. It extended alongside Pahu River with a main path in front, serving also as a playground and an arena for various rites.

When district officials visited the village, the front yard was crowded with people attending welcome ceremonies, followed by art performances later in the evening.

In the colonial era, the district chief's assistant, holding a family register, would conduct a roll-call for levy counting in the yard. Each family head would leave his lou room to make his right thumb print to shown his consent to pay the sum listed by the district clerk in the tax notebook.

Even when the levy was abolished, the arena continued to witness the transformation of life.

I was very fond of playing in the yard as a child. Running from one end to the other would leave me panting for breath. Children played coconut shells called logo, rattan football, tops or other games. When the ritual of kewangkey or nalin taun3 was held, people from the entire district would pack the yard. Crude bivouacs, food stalls and small eateries were springing fast along the path. Now and again, gamblers and cockfighting buffs would put up makeshift tents near the bivouacs or stalls.

The village was lively night and day.

It was all my usual experience during childhood. But after my long absence to attend school in Samarinda and later college in Bandung, I was captivated by the memories of different features of our lou.

It had not only tall pillars but also a single stairway with handrails, giving a strange architectural appearance. Small legs were attached to the lower end of the stairway, resting at their base, so that the flight of steps could be turned upside down to prevent dogs or pigs from entering. The steps were occasionally drawn up to the yard while occupants were away.

The carvings on the ulin (ironwood columns) and the roof ridge were unique. The symbols of life were shown in the form of giant birds or objects, including mythical representations of the phases leading to the afterlife, or the climb toward the sun indicating the complex stages of survival. On ulin walls within the lou were several carvings depicting ancestral folklore, the origins and tale of a clan.

I once saw another lou in Taman Mini, Jakarta, but the one in Kampung Besi displayed a more unique type of architecture, especially in view of its great age. Its skilled workers applied very simple technology, using primitive methods of material processing. Still, it's what one could call a perfect wooden structure, using no bricks, cement, nails, iron or steel. It was all built of ironwood taken from surrounding forests.

Grandma asked me to return home to talk about my match. It's a funny idea, returning to the olden days when couples were paired off. But I fulfilled her invitation in order not to hurt the feelings of someone of such a vulnerable age. I would make an excuse if the proposed partner was not to my liking.

Now I was back in the village again, sitting with a girl as king and queen for a day. There had been no reason to turn down the fiancee my granny had chosen. It was not only because I had known Bane in her childhood -- she was born in the lou and was my cousin -- but also due to her mature attitude.

Our grandpas were brothers and our fathers were cousins. Her father had been assigned to different cities until finally he settled in Palangkaraya. My father had retired and chose to wait until my youngest brother finished his studies at a Jakarta university instead of returning to Kampung Besi.

After completing her college study in Surabaya, Bane worked in Denpasar and later moved to Sampit. I started with explorations in Irian forests for minerals, before seeking a transfer and assignment to the office in Balikpapan.

Separated for over 20 years, we met again in Kampung Besi on the day when we were to be married.

I admired my fiancee. Though we had never dated like teenagers usually do, our feelings quickly formed a romantic bond.

"I didn't date your grandpa either as a girl, To," granny argued when betrothing me and Bane in wedlock. "And our marriage lasted until your grandpa died."

There was a smile on Bane's face, the loving smile of a faithful woman.

"But what if Bane regrets the marriage," I said, still looking at her face. "She's been in the city for a long time and known other college graduates. Why should she get back to her own relatives?"

"I asked her to do so," said grandma, without waiting for Bane's reaction. "Bane agreed, so did your uncle Nahi. Your parents left it to me. Now it's your decision Tolang."

I was willing. I reminisced about how I had frequently teased Bane by playing a ghost game, making her cry and hug me. But now I knew she was no longer scared as she was an adult.

"Are you daydreaming?" I heard Bane's teasing voice very close to my ear. "Remembering your girlfriend in Balikpapan?"

"I remember how you cried when I frightened you when you were little," I said, almost whispering.

Our talk was drowned out by the atmosphere of boisterous celebration. The sound of joyful percussion music accompanied a pelulukng4 mantra chanted by a local shaman known as belian in the arena. The music also went along with the cheerful songs sung by women. Advice on etiquette and mores had just been delivered and a typical Kampung Besi ritual prepared by granny for her two grandchildren would soon be over.

In fact, I had objected to the ritual required by grandma in the beginning. But Bane seemed to better understand a woman's feelings and expressed her delight at grandma's plan.

"You can give a reception in the city. But the ancestral ritual must come first," asserted my granny. Her great zeal for survival, which staved off the advances of age and senility, was still evident.

I felt something cold and smelled the stingingly foul odor of buffalo blood as the belian smeared it on my forehead and then Bane's, signaling the close of the ceremony. The sound of music and the united voice of a women's choir almost threw me off balance. I seized Bane immediately and felt my wife was also swooning.

Our lou suddenly rocked; the mighty columns looked like they were being swayed by a giant force. Cracking noises coming from the floors, walls, rafters, laths and roofs of the building revealed something untoward. Outside, the branches of trees jerked uncontrollably.

Like in our childhood when I scared her by playing a ghost, Bane embraced me while screaming: "Earthquake kak5 Tolang! Kak Tolang! Quake!"

Still hugging each other in our wedding attire, I gasped for breath. My eyes became blurry as frenzied shouting filled the entire lou, still crowded with visitors. I felt as if I was being tossed about by tsunami waves aboard a ship.

I hugged her firmly even as my sight became more obscured.

"Quake! Quake!"

Amid the shaking lou and whirling movement, time was lost and worthless. There was a floating feeling and the floors in the building were like those on a gliding aircraft, nosediving in a matter of seconds.

All the festive sounds and voices turned abruptly into cracks, creaks and rumbles with heaving earth. Shouting and instructions to avoid dangers could still be heard.

And then silence reigned.

I felt my right arm clasping Bane and my left holding a big pillar. Then something cold touched my feet.

A flood? When I opened my eyes, the gong serving as our wedding seat was atop the column. The walls and roofs of the lou were torn apart, as if they had been devastated by a wicked giant. As my sight got clearer, I saw the whole stretch of the lou area sunken into the ground that had been ripped open by the earthquake.

The cleft was so extensive that it swallowed the entire village and houses built in the upstream and downstream parts of the lou, and this gap formed a stream. Pahu river changed its course from its old stream to the new one created by the quake along the expanse of the lou in Kampung Besi.

I saw Bane trying to open her eyes. "Are you all right?" she asked softly.

"We're safe, Ne. But granny? Your parents and mine?"

We were staring at each other.

Nobody said a word. Everything was silent, except the sounds of the stream and wind in the new river. Kampung Besi, with its heyday and triumph over headhunters, was now helpless in the face of a natural disaster.

I gave Bane my first kiss of marriage life.

The river roared downstream, with its upper part no longer to be seen. The village of iron had crumbled.

Translated by Aris Prawira

Notes: 1. Kampung Besi or Besiq: a village in the interior of Damai district, West Kutai regency, East Kalimantan. 2. Pasu: a rice measuring container, some 30 cm in diameter. 3. Kewangkey: a final burial ceremony. Nalin taun: a post-harvest thanksgiving ceremony. 4.Pelulukng: a wedding ceremony. 5. Kak: brother.